**Diary Entry: My Father’s New Wife**
I held the wedding invitation in my hands, staring at the elegant golden lettering on the cream-coloured cardstock. It announced the marriage of my father, Victor, to a woman named Imogen—apparently in a week’s time.
*In a week.* The words stuck in my throat. He couldn’t even give us proper notice.
My phone buzzed, snapping me out of my thoughts. My younger sister, Lydia’s name flashed on the screen.
*’Elsie, did you get that… invitation?’* Her voice was strained.
*’Yes. Did you know anything about this?’*
*’Nothing! Absolutely nothing! I thought Dad was just casually seeing someone. And now—suddenly—a wedding?’*
I walked to the kitchen, filling the kettle. Outside, a light drizzle made the world as dreary as I felt.
*’Lyd, have you ever seen her? This Imogen?’*
*’Once, by chance. They were leaving a café in Chelsea, and I happened to drive past. Young—mid-thirties at most. Bottle-blonde, dripping in gold and faux fur.’*
I winced. Dad’s sixty-eight. A thirty-year gap.
*’Do you think it’s for the money?’* Lydia suggested. *’Remember when Dad said he sold the country house? And that two-bed flat in Kensington?’*
*’I 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 flat—a recent downsizing move he’d blamed on wanting to be closer to the city. Now, I suspected other motives.
*’Girls!’* Dad greeted us with open arms. *’So glad you came! Let me introduce you to Immy.’*
He looked different—younger, fresher. A sharp haircut, a crisp new shirt, even his posture seemed lighter.
*’Dad, we need to talk,’* I said flatly.
*’Of course! Imogen’s just finishing dinner. She’s a brilliant cook, you’ll see.’*
From the kitchen came the clatter of plates and a woman humming tunelessly. Dad led us to the sitting room.
*’Sweethearts, I’m so happy you’ll finally meet Imogen. She’s wonderful—kind, caring. I never thought I’d fall in love at my age.’*
Lydia and I exchanged glances. *’Fall in love’* sounded unnatural coming from a man of sixty-eight.
*’Dad,’* Lydia began, *’how long have you known her?’*
*’Four months. We met at the cardiology clinic. Her mum was ill—she was upset. I 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.’*
Then she walked in, and Lydia’s description was spot-on. Imogen couldn’t have been older than thirty-five. Tall, slender, honey-blonde hair, heavy makeup. A tight dress, jewellery glittering at her throat and wrists.
*’Girls, this is Immy. My daughters—Elsie and Lydia.’*
*’Lovely to meet you!’* Imogen held out a hand with long, manicured nails. *’Vic’s told me so much!’* Her voice was saccharine-sweet, and something about it set my teeth on edge.
Dinner was lavish—new china I’d never seen in Dad’s home, candles, fresh flowers. All stylish, all… performative.
*’Tell the girls about yourself,’* Dad urged, pouring wine.
*’Oh, there’s not much to tell,’* Imogen laughed. *’Just an ordinary girl. I work at a Mayfair salon—nail technician. Never had children. Was married once, but my ex was… difficult.’*
*’How so?’* Lydia pressed.
*’Drinking, temper. Had to divorce him.’* She sighed dramatically. *’Then I met your father…’* The way she gazed at Dad made my skin crawl.
*’Do you have family?’* Lydia continued.
*’Just my mum. She’s poorly—needs care. Vic’s been so generous, helping with her medication.’*
Dad beamed.
Later, we confronted him in the hallway.
*’She’s lying,’* I said flatly. *’About her mother. Her ex. All of it.’*
Dad’s face hardened. *’Even if she is—does it matter? I’m happy.’*
*’Happy? Dad, look at her! She’s using you!’*
*’Perhaps,’* he said quietly. *’But loneliness is worse.’*
The wedding went ahead. Imogen played the blushing bride beautifully. Six months later, Dad was a shadow of himself—thin, tired, aged. Imogen, meanwhile, still glowed.
One night, he called me over. *’You were right,’* he admitted, voice hollow. *’Pretend love is lonelier than none at all.’*
When he had a heart attack, Imogen visited once—then vanished.
He died with Lydia and me at his side.
At the funeral, Imogen appeared in designer black and oversized sunglasses. After, she disappeared for good—clearing out the flat, even taking Mum’s photos.
All that remained was a note: *’Thanks for the memories, Vic. Take care.’*
She got what she came for. And Dad? He never learned that love isn’t a transaction.
