**Diary Entry – 12th October**
I held the wedding invitation in my hands, struggling to believe what I was seeing. The cream-coloured card, embossed with gold lettering, announced the marriage of my father, William Carter, to a woman named Emily Whitmore. The date was set for next week.
*Next week,* I muttered, flipping the card over. *Couldn’t even give us a proper warning.*
My phone buzzed, interrupting my thoughts. My younger sister, Sophie’s name flashed on the screen.
“Liz, did you get that… invitation?” Her voice was shaky.
“Yeah. Did you know anything about this?”
“Nothing! Absolutely nothing! I thought Dad was just seeing someone casually. And now—this!”
I walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Outside, a light drizzle fell, matching the heaviness in my chest.
“Soph, have you ever met her? This Emily?”
“Once, by chance. I saw them leaving a café in Kensington. She’s young—mid-thirties at most. Bleached blonde, dripping in gold jewellery, designer handbag.”
I winced. Dad was sixty-eight. The age gap was staggering.
“Do you think it’s about money?” Sophie suggested. “Remember when Dad sold the summer house? Plus, he’s got that two-bedroom flat in Westminster.”
“Don’t know,” I sighed. “We need to talk to him.”
“Let’s go together. I’ll leave work early tomorrow.”
The next day, we met outside Dad’s building. He’d moved there recently after selling the three-bed where we grew up. At the time, he’d said it was to be closer to the city. Now, I suspected other motives.
“My girls!” Dad greeted us with open arms. “How wonderful to see you! You must meet Emily.”
He looked years younger—fresh haircut, a smart shirt, even his posture was livelier.
“Dad, we need to talk,” I said firmly.
“Of course! Emily’s just finishing dinner. She’s a fantastic cook, you’ll see.”
The clatter of dishes and a woman humming softly came from the kitchen. Dad led us to the lounge, settling us on the sofa.
“Darling, I’m so happy you’ll get to know Emily. She’s incredible—kind, caring. Never thought I’d fall in love again at my age.”
Sophie and I exchanged glances. The word *love* sounded unnatural coming from our sixty-eight-year-old father.
“Dad,” Sophie began cautiously, “how long have you known her?”
“Four months. We met at the GP’s office, both waiting for the cardiologist. Her mother was ill, and she was upset. I comforted her, walked her home…”
“Four months, and already a wedding?” I blurted. “Isn’t that too fast?”
“At our age, why wait?” Dad frowned slightly. “We know what we want.”
Just then, a woman walked in, and I knew Sophie was right. Emily couldn’t be older than thirty-five—if that. Tall, slender, with honey-blonde waves and bold makeup. Her tight dress and layered necklaces screamed expensive.
“Girls, meet Emily!” Dad jumped up. “Emily, my daughters—Elizabeth and Sophie.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Emily said, extending a manicured hand. “William’s told me so much!”
Her voice was sweet, but I instantly disliked the saccharine tone.
“Dinner’s ready,” she announced. “Let’s eat.”
The table was set like a magazine spread—fine china, candles, flowers. Perfect, yet painfully artificial.
“Emily, tell the girls about yourself,” Dad prompted, pouring wine.
“Oh, there’s not much to tell,” she laughed. “I’m a nail technician at a Mayfair salon. Single, no kids. Was married once, but he was… difficult.”
“How?” Sophie pressed.
“Drunk. Violent. I left him. Swore off men—until I met your dad.”
She gazed at him with such adoration it made my skin crawl.
“Do you have family?” Sophie continued.
“Just my mum. Dad’s long gone. Mum’s unwell—William helps with her medicine. Such a generous man!”
Dad beamed with pride.
“Dad,” I stood abruptly, “can we talk privately?”
We stepped into the hall. Emily stayed to clear the plates.
“What is it?” Dad’s guard was up.
“Dad, she’s *young*. She’s my age.”
“So? Am I forcing her? She chose this.”
“Have you asked yourself *why*?” Sophie cut in. “Look at the facts. A gorgeous young woman marries a man old enough to be her father…”
“Enough!” Dad snapped. “You’re just jealous I’ve found love while your own relationships crumble!”
My face burned. He’d thrown my recent divorce in my face.
“Jealous?” I choked out. “Dad, we’re worried!”
“Don’t be. I know what I’m doing.”
He stormed back to the kitchen. Sophie and I exchanged a look before reluctantly following.
The rest of the evening was strained. Emily gushed about wedding plans, showed off dress photos. Dad nodded along, starry-eyed.
“Where will you live after?” I asked.
“Here,” Emily said. “William cleared wardrobe space for me. So thoughtful!”
“What about your mum? You said she’s ill.”
Emily hesitated. “She… has a carer. I visit, but I don’t need to be there daily.”
On the way home, silence stretched between us. Finally, Sophie spoke:
“She’s lying.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know yet. But something’s off. First, her mum’s sick, now suddenly there’s a carer?”
“The whole thing’s dodgy,” I agreed. “Four months and straight to marriage?”
“What do we do?”
“Dig deeper. Didn’t your friend Jess work at that salon?”
The next day, Sophie called Jess, who knew the beauty industry gossip.
“Emily Whitmore? Yeah, she’s at the Mayfair salon. Why—trouble?”
“Maybe. What do you know?”
“Good at her job, clients love her. But the girls say she chases wealthy men. Last year, she dated some entrepreneur twice her age—designer everything, new Mercedes. Then they split, and she was back on the Tube.”
“Was she really married?”
“She mentioned an ex, but who knows? She spins stories.”
“What about her mum?”
Jess paused. “Pretty sure she said her mum died years ago? Or maybe I’m mixing her up with someone else…”
Sophie hung up and called me. “Liz, this is bad.”
I listened, fury simmering. “So she lied about her mum. Probably the husband too.”
“Now what?”
“Talk to Dad. Properly.”
But when we arrived that evening, he wasn’t home. His neighbour, Mrs. Higgins, said he’d gone shopping with his “*new wife*” for wedding things.
“New wife?” I echoed.
“Oh, yes,” she nodded. “He introduced her as his wife yesterday. Said they’re registering officially this Sunday, but they’re already family.”
We waited, ringing the bell endlessly, then used the spare key Dad had given me for emergencies.
The flat was transformed—women’s clothes everywhere, designer creams littering the bathroom. The kitchen sink held expensive dishes.
“She’s moved in,” Sophie said.
“And taken over.”
I walked to the bedroom. Dad’s things were shoved aside, the wardrobe bursting with her clothes. On the dresser, where Mum’s photos used to be, stood perfume bottles and makeup.
“Where are Mum’s pictures?” Sophie whispered.
I yanked open a drawer. They’d been dumped inside, hastily boxed.
“She *hid* them,” I seethed. “Can’t even stand a dead woman’s memory.”
The lock clicked. Laughter echoed in the hall. We hurried out as Dad entered, arms full of shopping bags.
“Oh, girls!” He feigned surprise. “We weren’t expecting you.”
Emily followed, draped in a new fur coat, bags dangling.
“We got my wedding outfit!” she chirped. “William spoils me rotten!”
“Dad, we need to talk,” I said flatly.
“Again?” he sighed. “We’re exhausted.”
“It’s important.”
Emily sensed the tension. “Darling, I’ll pop to Mum’s,” she said.
“But you live here now,” Dad protested.
“I’ll… check on her.”
She fled, leaving Dad scowling.
“What now?”
“Dad, we looked into Emily,” I started.
“You *investigated* her?”
“Talked to people who know her. She’s lying.”
“About what?”
“Her mum’s *dead*. Has been for years.”
He paused, then shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t want to upset me.”
“And the alcoholic ex? Another white lie?”
“How do you *knowIn the end, Dad’s desperate hope for love cost him everything—his savings, his home, and the dignity of his final years, leaving us to pick up the pieces of a heartbreak we’d seen coming from the start.
