—Emily, who’s this with you in the photo? Some flashy chap in a leather jacket!— Victor Carter jabbed a finger at the yellowed photograph lying in the old family album with its worn leather cover.
The Carters’ new flat, where they’d moved the week before, still smelled of fresh paint, cardboard, faint dust, and the vanilla air freshener Anne had placed on the windowsill. The living room, cluttered with boxes of crockery, books, and old blankets, held an oak table where Anne, their twenty-four-year-old daughter, was sorting through the album she’d found behind a stack of towels. In the photo, a young Emily, in a floral-patterned dress with a long plait, stood beside an unfamiliar man in a leather jacket, both smiling, an old fountain in the city park visible behind them, surrounded by flowerbeds. Victor, in a wrinkled checkered shirt, his grey-streaked hair disheveled, frowned as his thin-framed glasses slipped down his nose, his hands curling into fists.
Emily, who’d been unpacking a box of china, straightened up, her back cracking. Her pale hair, lightly streaked with silver, was tied in a messy ponytail, her jeans and grey jumper dust-streaked. Her face tensed when she saw the photo.
“Victor, really?” she said, her voice sharp with irritation. “That’s from twenty years ago! Why dredge up the past?”
Anne, in a black university-logo t-shirt and denim shorts, flipped through the album, her small diamond engagement ring glinting under the lamplight. She was getting married in a month and looked anxious, her dark hair slipping loose from its braid.
“Dad, don’t start,” she said, fiddling with the ring. “It’s just an old photo. Mum, tell us who it is, and let’s drop it.”
Victor crossed his arms, his voice rising, brows furrowed.
“Tell me? Emily, I’ve never seen this bloke before!” he snapped, jabbing the album. “Who is he? Some old flame of yours?”
Emily flung a dusty rag onto the table, sending up a puff of grit, her eyes flashing.
“Flame? Victor, have you lost your mind?” she shouted, hands on hips. “That’s my past, none of your business! Don’t you trust me, after thirty years of marriage?”
Anne jumped up, her voice shaking as the album trembled in her hands.
“Stop shouting, both of you!” she cried. “I’ve got a wedding coming up, and you’re acting like detectives! Let’s unpack and forget the photo!”
But the picture had already sparked something—fears, resentments, old wounds flaring in the lamplit room.
By evening, the argument flared anew. The living room hummed with tension under the warm glow of the fringed lamp. Emily sorted plates with sharp clinks, while Victor drank tea from his “Best Dad” mug, his newspaper crumpled on the table. Anne arranged photos on the sofa, her ring catching on the pages.
“Emily, I’m not daft,” Victor said, setting down his mug with a clatter. “You never mentioned this man! What secrets are you keeping?”
Emily turned, her face flushed, gripping a chipped bowl.
“Secrets? You’re inventing them!” she snapped. “It’s just a photo, and you’re accusing me! Should I ask who you were with on those business trips to London in the nineties?”
Anne stood, her braid unraveling.
“Mum, Dad, please stop!” she pleaded, eyes shining. “It’s just a photo! Mum, tell us who it is, and let’s move on. Don’t ruin my wedding over this!”
Victor scoffed, his glasses fogging.
“Ruin it? She’s the one hiding things! I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for this family, and she can’t even be honest!”
Emily slammed the bowl onto the table—it cracked with a sharp ring, shards scattering.
“You’ve worked? And what have I done?” she shot back, eyes red. “Kept this home, raised Anne, cooked for you—and now I’m made to feel like a liar!”
Anne grabbed the album, her hands shaking.
“Enough!” she yelled. In the struggle, the page tore with a rip—a jagged split down the middle.
Silence fell like a heavy curtain. Emily gasped, pressing a hand to her chest.
“Anne…” she whispered. “This was our album. Mine and Alfie’s. Now it’s ruined.”
Victor sank into a chair, pale.
“Blast,” he muttered, removing his glasses. “I’m sorry. Emily, Anne—I didn’t mean—”
Anne clutched the album, tears spilling. “It’s my fault. I just wanted us to be a family, not enemies.”
—
The next day, Emily visited the park where the photo had been taken. The air smelled of lilacs, rain-damp grass, and candy floss from a nearby stall. She sat by the old fountain, its streams weaker than decades ago, remembering Alfie—her brother, killed in a crash at twenty. His laughter, his dreams of being an artist, their last walk together. She wiped her tears, unsure how to tell Victor, fearing the grief would overwhelm her.
Meanwhile, Anne met her friend Lucy at a café, the scent of fresh coffee and cinnamon in the air.
“Anne, why the long face?” Lucy asked, stirring her cappuccino. “The wedding’s soon—you should be over the moon!”
Anne sighed. “Mum and Dad had a row over an old photo. Dad thinks it’s some ex, Mum won’t explain. What if they split? What if it ruins everything?”
Lucy shook her head. “Talk to them. That photo might not be what he thinks. Ask your mum—gently.”
At home, Victor found Emily’s old journal but didn’t open it. Instead, he joined her in the living room, where she taped the album back together.
“Emily, I’m sorry about yesterday,” he said, sitting beside her. “Just tell me—who was he?”
She sighed, her hands trembling. “It’s… personal. Give me time.”
He nodded. “Alright. But I love you, Em. Even when I’m a stubborn old git.”
She smiled faintly. “I love you too. But don’t tear our memories. Alfie would’ve hated that.”
Victor stiffened. “Alfie?”
“Later,” she whispered.
Days later, Anne found an envelope tucked in the album—”For my family” in Emily’s handwriting. Inside was a letter:
*”If you’re reading this, I couldn’t say it aloud. The man in the photo is my brother Alfie. We took it a month before his accident in 1990. He wanted to be an artist. I never got to say goodbye. Love each other. Don’t fight.—Emily.”*
Tearfully, Anne rushed to show them. Emily read the letter aloud, her voice breaking.
“Alfie was my best friend. I kept the photo to remember his laugh.” She wiped her eyes. “I—I didn’t want to burden you.”
Victor stood, stunned. “Emily, why didn’t you tell me? I knew Alfie—he fixed my car once!”
She shook her head. “It hurt too much. But you—you’re my family now.”
Anne hugged her. “We’re here, Mum. Alfie’s part of us too.”
—
By the wedding a month later, the album was restored, new photos added—one of Alfie in a frame, no longer hidden. Over apple pie one evening, Emily looked at them.
“You know,” she said softly, “this album saved us. Alfie would be proud.”
Anne squeezed her hand. “Now we’re all together—with him.”
Victor raised his mug. “To family. And to Alfie. May he remember us kindly.”
The photo wasn’t a secret anymore. It was a reminder—to trust, to cherish, to keep those they’d lost close in love.
