The Brother They Never Spoke Of
“Emma, who’s this with you in the photo? Some bloke in a leather jacket!” Victor Fairweather pointed at the yellowed picture lying in the old family album, its leather cover worn with time.
The Fairweathers’ new flat, where they’d moved just a week ago, still smelled of fresh paint, cardboard boxes, a hint of dust, and the vanilla air freshener Emily had placed on the windowsill. The living room, cluttered with crates of crockery, books, and old blankets, held an oak table where Emily—their twenty-four-year-old daughter—sorted through the album she’d found behind a stack of towels. In the photograph, a young Emma, wearing a floral dress with a long braid, stood beside an unfamiliar man in a leather jacket, both smiling against the backdrop of an old fountain in the city park, surrounded by flower beds. Victor, in his wrinkled checked shirt and tousled grey hair, frowned, his thin-framed glasses slipping down his nose, fists clenching.
Emma, who’d been unpacking a box of china, straightened up, her back cracking. Her pale hair, lightly streaked with silver, was tied in a careless ponytail, her jeans and grey jumper dusty. Her face tensed as she glanced at the photo.
“Victor, seriously?” Her voice was sharp with irritation. “That’s from when I was twenty! Why drag up the past?”
Emily, in her black university logo T-shirt and denim shorts, flipped through the album, her engagement ring glinting under the lamplight. She was to be married in a month and looked uneasy, her dark hair escaping from its braid.
“Dad, don’t start,” she said, toying with her 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. “Tell us? Emma, I’ve never seen this man before! Who is he? Some old flame?”
Emma threw a dusty cloth onto the table, sending up a cloud like snow, her eyes flashing.
“Old flame? Vic, have you gone mad?” She planted her hands on her hips. “This is my past—none of your business! Thirty years of marriage, and you still don’t trust me?”
Emily stood abruptly, the album trembling in her hands.
“Enough shouting! My wedding’s weeks away, and you’re playing detectives over a photo? Let’s finish unpacking and forget it!”
But the photo was no longer just an image—it was a spark, igniting fears and doubts they’d buried long ago.
By evening, the argument flared anew. The living room buzzed with tension under the warm glow of the fringed lamp. Emma stacked plates sharply, the clatter like a protest. Victor sipped tea from his “World’s Best Dad” mug—Emily’s gift last birthday—his newspaper crumpled on the table. Emily arranged photos on the sofa, her fingers shaky, her ring catching on the pages.
“Emma, I’m not daft,” Victor said, setting his mug down with a clink. “You’ve never mentioned this bloke! What secrets are you keeping? Thirty years married, and now this?”
Emma turned, her face flushed, gripping a cracked porcelain bowl.
“Secrets? You’re the one inventing them!” Her voice wavered. “It’s just a photo, and you’re accusing me! Maybe I should ask who you were with on those business trips to London in the ’90s!”
Emily jumped in, her voice pleading.
“Mum, Dad, stop! It’s only a photo! Just tell us who it is, and let’s end this. Don’t ruin my wedding over it!”
Victor scoffed, his glasses fogging.
“Ruin it? Your mother’s the one keeping secrets! I’ve slaved for this family, and she won’t even talk to me!”
Emma slammed the bowl onto the table—it shattered, shards skittering across the linoleum.
“Slaved? And what, I’ve sat idle? Kept the house, raised Emily, cooked your meals—now you make me feel like some doddering old fool with your accusations!”
Emily snatched the album, her hands shaking.
“Stop it!” she cried. “I can’t take this! I want a wedding, not your fighting!” In her haste, she tugged the album—Victor grabbed it—and the page tore with a sharp rip, the photo splitting in two.
Silence fell like a heavy curtain. Emma gasped, a hand to her chest, eyes welling.
“Emily…” she whispered. “This was our album. Mine and Johnny’s. And now… it’s ruined.”
Victor sank into a chair, pale, his voice hoarse.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, removing his glasses. “I’m sorry. I lost my head. Em, Emily… I went too far.”
Emily wept, clutching the album, her ring scratching the cover.
“This is my fault,” she sobbed. “I just wanted us to be a family, not enemies.”
The album, lying there, had become a symbol of their fracture—the torn photo, their failure to trust.
The next day, Emma walked to the park where the photo had been taken. It smelled of blooming lilacs, rain-damp grass, and cotton candy from a nearby stall. She sat by the old fountain, its streams weaker than thirty years ago, remembering Johnny—her brother, killed in a crash at twenty. His laugh, his dream of being an artist, their last walk together when they’d taken that photo. Wiping her tears, she didn’t know how to tell Victor, fearing the pain would return.
Meanwhile, Emily met her friend Sophie at a café down the street, its air rich with coffee, croissants, and cinnamon. Sophie, helping plan the wedding, fiddled with her menu, her auburn hair glossy under the lights.
“Em, why the long face?” Sophie asked over her cappuccino. “The wedding’s close—shouldn’t you be glowing?”
Emily sighed, her fingers leaving marks in her latte’s foam.
“Mum and Dad are fighting over some old photo. Dad thinks it’s a secret lover, Mum’s furious he doesn’t trust her. I’m scared they’ll split and wreck the wedding.”
Sophie shook her head, earrings jingling.
“Talk to them. They love you. Maybe the photo isn’t what your dad thinks. Ask your mum—gently.”
Emily nodded, her ring catching the light.
“I’ll try. But if they shout again, I’m running to Tom—let him deal with them.”
Sophie laughed.
“Tom’s your fiancé, not a peacekeeper. But call him if you must—he’ll calm your dad.”
That evening, Victor rummaged through boxes in the bedroom, its scent a mix of fresh linen, new varnish, and faint damp. He found Emma’s old diary, bound with a rubber band, but didn’t open it, wary of more secrets. Instead, he went to the living room, where Emma taped the torn album, her hands unsteady beside her half-drunk tea.
“Emma, I’m sorry about yesterday,” Victor said, sitting beside her, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. “I overreacted. But… who was he? I’m not angry—just want to understand.”
Emma exhaled, her eyes red, tape sticking to her fingers.
“It’s not what you think. But it hurts to talk about. Give me time, alright?”
Victor nodded, resting a hand on her shoulder.
“Alright. But I love you, Em. Even when I’m a suspicious old fool.”
Emma smiled faintly, squeezing his hand.
“I know. But no more tearing albums. This meant a lot to me. And to Johnny.”
Victor coughed, brows lifting.
“Johnny? That’s him in the photo?”
Emma shook her head.
“Later, Vic. I’ll tell you later.”
The next morning, Emily headed to her office, the air thick with coffee, printer paper, and colleagues’ perfume. Her boss, Mark, noticed her distraction.
“Em, you’re miles away. Wedding nerves?”
Emily sighed, her laptop flashing a message from Tom.
“Family drama. Over an old photo. Dad thinks Mum’s hiding something, they fought, tore the album—I don’t know how to fix it.”
Mark adjusted his glasses.
“Talk to your mum. Sounds like she’s got something to say. Don’t let it ruin your wedding.”
That evening, Emily rummaged through the hall cupboard for her mother’s old jewellery. Behind shoes, scarves, and fairy lights, she found an envelope tucked in the album’s back cover—labeled “For My Family” in Emma’s neat script. Inside was a letter:
“If you’re reading this, I couldn’t say it aloud. The man in the photo is my brother Johnny. We took this a month before his accident in 1990. He was my best friend, wanted to be an artist. I never got to say goodbye. Hold each other close—don’t let anger divide you.The family gathered around the table that evening, the mended album open before them, and as Emma finally shared stories of Johnny—his laughter, his paintings, the way he’d taught her to ride a bike by that very fountain—they realized that love, not secrets, was what truly kept memories alive.
