“Every man deserves a son,” he said, cradling Ben’s fuzzy head against his shoulder.
The dismayed gulp from his daughters must have been audible in Cragg Vale, if not in Heckmondwike itself.
Emily, the younger and formerly favourite child, simmered with resentment.
And Hester, who’d laboured dawn to dusk managing the estate, seethed as he indicated the surrounding dales, announcing “one day all this will be yours, my lad.”
Years later, when their father lay confined to his bed and Ben had eloped with a used-car salesman from Mytholmroyd, the sisters smiled.
“You can never have too many daughters,” their father mused thoughtfully.
It’s that time of the week again. Time to sharpen quills, and draw the inkwell closer to the parchment. As a member of the British contingent of Friday Fictioneers, I chose to transport this week’s prompt to my home country, and to the rolling dales of West Yorkshire this week. Thanks to Rochelle for her photo, and for her unfailing attention to our little circle.