The Secret of the Old Photograph
Oliver and Emily studied in the same class. She was just another girl, nothing out of the ordinary. But whether it was time for love or something in her had shifted, one day Oliver looked at her differently—as if seeing her for the first time—and the world turned upside down in the eyes of a smitten young man.
After lectures, he waited for her by the university gates. But she rushed past without noticing him, straight into the arms of another young man. They walked away together, leaving Oliver standing there until they vanished, swallowing his bitterness and frustration.
What had he expected? That she’d wait forever for him to finally see her? A girl like Emily wouldn’t stay unattached for long.
One day, she arrived with red, tear-streaked eyes. Quiet and withdrawn, she barely spoke all day. Again, he waited for her outside. This time, no one came to meet her, and Oliver gathered his courage.
“Going home?” he asked.
“No, to my grandmother’s. I live with her now. She’s unwell.”
Emily explained her grandmother suffered from high blood pressure and arthritis. Spring always made it worse—she barely left the house.
Oliver walked beside her, barely listening, floating on cloud nine. His heart thrummed wildly, the rhythm of her name—Emily, Emily, Emily—pulsing through his mind.
She lived three bus stops from campus.
“Can’t invite you in. Gran’s not feeling well,” she apologised at her doorstep.
The next day, Oliver asked about her grandmother.
“Mum and her new husband visited last night. Gran got so upset, her blood pressure spiked. We had to call an ambulance,” Emily muttered. “She shouldn’t have come.”
So that was it. Trouble with the stepfather. Maybe that’s why she’d moved in with her grandmother. Oliver didn’t press further.
Before summer exams, Emily’s grandmother passed away. Oliver stayed by her side, offering comfort. After the funeral, Emily remained in her grandmother’s flat.
“Aren’t you afraid of Gran’s ghost?” Oliver teased one evening as he walked her home.
“No. She had a temper, but she was kind—to me, at least.”
One evening, Oliver finally asked about the man who used to meet her.
Her face darkened. “He married my mother.”
“Now he’s my stepfather,” she whispered, hiding her face.
After their first exam, Emily invited Oliver over. The flat, heavy with antique furniture and faded wallpaper, felt oddly comforting. An old photo album lay on the table.
“May I?”
Emily nodded. “I was picking a photo for Gran’s headstone.”
She sat beside him, pointing out family portraits with brief explanations.
“That’s me as a baby. And my parents—before I was born.”
“They’re divorced?”
“Mum’s temper drove him away. She remarried recently. He’s got another family now.”
Oliver pointed to a stern-faced woman. “Who’s this?”
“That’s Gran—no filter. She looked like that lately.”
She flipped the page. “Here she is young. Beautiful, wasn’t she?”
The photo showed a radiant girl in a floral dress—a stark contrast to the woman they knew. Oliver said nothing.
He stopped her as she turned the page again. “Wait—who’s this with her?”
A young man stood arm in arm with her grandmother.
“Dunno. A friend, maybe. She never looked at this album with me.” Emily frowned. “Oliver? What’s wrong?”
“I should go.” He snapped the album shut, dust swirling. “I’ll call tomorrow,” he said at the door, hesitating before leaving without another word.
Instead of heading home, Oliver went to his grandfather’s house across London, lost in thought the whole ride.
“Oliver! Didn’t expect you. Come in!” His grandfather grinned.
“How’s uni? Any girlfriends yet?”
“Just aced my first exam.”
“Tea, then—we’ll celebrate.”
While his grandfather busied himself, Oliver searched the bookshelf.
“Looking for something?” His grandfather’s sudden presence made him jump.
“That photo album…”
“Ah. Here.” His grandfather retrieved it from a drawer. “Who are you looking for?”
Oliver flipped through until he found a severed half-photo wedged between pages.
“That’s you. Who was on the other half?”
His grandfather flinched. “No one. Just a half.” But unease flickered in his eyes.
“I saw the other half today. A girl I know showed me her grandmother’s album. You’re in it—with her.”
His grandfather stood abruptly and paced before disappearing into the kitchen. The whistling kettle fell silent, but he didn’t return.
Oliver found him slumped at the table, head in hands.
“You alright?” He placed the torn photo before him.
“What’s the girl’s name?”
“Emily.”
“Her grandmother?”
Oliver recalled a framed photo in Emily’s flat—dates and a full name inscribed on the back.
“Margaret Anne Whitaker.” He paused. “You knew her? Before Nan?”
“Just tell me.”
Oliver repeated the name. His grandfather exhaled shakily.
“No such thing as coincidence. Run all you like—the past catches up.”
He seemed to shrink, the weight of years pressing down.
“I love Emily. I need to know what happened between you and her grandmother.”
“Foolish mistakes, lad. Youth’s curse.”
“Emily’s not a mistake.”
“That’s for you to decide.”
***
Post-war Britain. Your nan and I married later. But before her… there was Margaret.
Loveliest girl at the factory. Head over heels, I was. Lads warned me—said she’d had plenty of suitors. Didn’t care. Brought her flowers, walked her home. Proposed after a few months.
She said yes.
We got a council flat. I was over the moon—till I noticed she’d put on weight. Turned out she was pregnant—not by me.
“Think I’d have looked twice if not for this?” She jabbed her stomach. “We got the flat because of it.”
I forgave her. Loved her too much.
Then I came home one day—found the factory foreman at our table like he owned the place. Threw him out. Lost my job after that. Margaret made it clear she never loved me.
Packed a suitcase. Left.
Met your nan on a building site. Not a beauty, but steady. Good cook. We married. Had your uncle first—lost him to the river at seven. Then your dad.
Years later, I bumped into Margaret. Old feelings flared. She had a daughter—sent her to live with relatives. Said she was dying. Played on my pity. Your nan saw through it.
“Go to her then,” she said. No tears. Not one.
I nearly did. But I stayed.
Margaret wasn’t ill. Lied to reel me back. Now she’s dead. But your nan… her heart gave out young. All that grief.
And now you’re sweet on Margaret’s granddaughter. Like history’s repeating.”
Oliver showed him Emily’s photo.
“Serious girl. God help you.” His grandfather sighed. “Never told a soul till now.”
“There’s no one else for me. But I won’t rush. And I won’t tell Emily. She’s had enough hurt.”
After Oliver left, his grandfather reopened the album. Hidden behind a family portrait was the other half of the photo—Margaret, young and smiling.
“Dead now,” he murmured. “No matter how far you run…”
He slid the fragment back into darkness and sat alone, remembering.
