My father, now in his seventies, once recounted that he intended to marry a former schoolmistress of his youth.
When he first announced his plans, I was stunned. He could hardly be any younger than seventytwo!
For twenty years he had lived alone, ever since my mother passed away. I left home three decades ago, after marrying and starting my own family. Yet I never forget him, and each Christmas and during the summer holidays I travel with my wife, Alice, and our two children to visit him in his cottage near York. By good fortune my father remains spry; he never complains of ill health and insists on doing everything himself, even though Alice and I still pitch in when the garden needs tending or firewood must be split for winter.
Just a few weeks ago, over the phone, he told me it was time to bring a lady home. It turned out she was an old schoolmate, Ethel, with whom he had once been close. After school they each moved to different towns and lost touch, but now, in their twilight years, they have decided to reunite. I could not help but wonder if this was a jest at my expense.
When word reached me of my father’s impending wedding, I warned him that we would not be able to attend the ceremony with the children. That did not deter him. A modest celebration was held a few months later, and the two were married.
What could have been missing from his life that he waited so long to find a partner?
The truth is that my father’s farm is substantial, with acres of fields and a sizable manor house. His new wife, Ethel, has a brood of grandchildren and offspring who would gladly lay claim to that estate. I cannot help but suspect that the marriage may be motivated by money.
Alice and I live in a threebedroom terraced house in Manchester, a home we have mortgaged for half our lives. We have two kids, and I have always believed we would one day leave that house to our elder child and the younger would inherit my father’s farm. Now we are left uncertain who will inherit what.
We have not seen my father for six months, and honestly we have little desire to, now that he is building a new life. Relatives often phone, urging us to be grateful that he has found happiness at his age. I would be delighted for my father, were it not for the nagging thought that Ethel may be after his fortune, and that we might someday be entangled in a dispute with her kin over the very property in which I have spent the better part of my life.
I am at a loss. I cannot simply ignore my father, yet I lack the strength to pretend everything is fine. What counsel might you offer to free me from this predicament?
