From the outset it was made abundantly clear that I was considered a poor choice of husband – never more so than at our engagement party: the remotest corner of their extensive grounds, the cheapest furniture, the second best china. I bore their sophisticated scorn with good grace, safe in the knowledge that, whilst not particularly dashing, I was pulling off a daring rescue mission, right under their very noses.
Despite malice, subterfuge and excommunication the inheritance nevertheless found its way into our hands. That we never wanted it would no doubt have doubly offended.
They are empty chairs now, inward facing, silent.
Written for: Friday Fictioneers