“The Brother No One Spoke Of”
“Beth, who’s that with you in the photo? Some flashy bloke in a leather jacket!” Victor Dawson jabbed his finger at the faded picture lying in the old family album with its scuffed leather cover.
The Dawsons’ new flat, which they’d moved into the week before, still smelled of fresh paint, cardboard boxes, a hint of dust, and the vanilla air freshener Annie had set on the windowsill. In the cluttered living room—crowded with boxes of crockery, books, and old quilts—stood an oak table where Annie, their twenty-four-year-old daughter, was sorting through the album she’d found behind a pile of towels. The photograph showed a young Beth in a floral dress, her long plait draped over one shoulder, standing beside an unfamiliar man in a leather jacket, both grinning. Behind them, an old fountain in the park, ringed by flowerbeds, glinted in the sunlight. Victor, in his wrinkled checked shirt and wild grey hair, frowned. His thin-framed glasses slid down his nose, and his hands clenched into fists.
Beth, who’d been unpacking a box of china, straightened up with a crack from her back. Her blonde hair, streaked with silver, was tied in a messy ponytail. Dust clung to her jeans and jumper, and her face tightened as she glanced at the picture.
“Victor, seriously?” she snapped, irritation sharp in her voice. “That was twenty years ago! Why dredge up the past?”
Annie, in a black university T-shirt and denim shorts, flipped through the album, her engagement ring with its small diamond glinting under the lamp. She was due to marry in a month and looked frazzled, her dark hair slipping loose from her plait.
“Dad, don’t start,” she said, fiddling with her ring. “It’s just an old photo. Mum, who’s that? Then we drop it.”
Victor crossed his arms, voice rising.
“Drop it? Beth, I’ve never seen this bloke before!” He stabbed the page. “Who is he? An ex-boyfriend or something?”
Beth flung a dusty rag onto the table, sending up a cloud like snow. Her eyes flashed.
“Ex-boyfriend? Have you lost the plot, Vic?” she barked, hands on hips. “That’s my past, not yours! Don’t you trust me? After thirty years of marriage?”
Annie jumped up, her voice shaky, the album trembling in her grip.
“Stop shouting!” she pleaded. “I’ve got a wedding coming up, and you’re acting like detectives! Let’s unpack and forget the stupid photo!”
But the picture had already become more than paper—it was a spark igniting old fears, resentments, and insecurities.
By evening, the argument flared again. The living room, lit by the warm glow of a fringed lamp, hummed with tension. Beth clattered plates like a protesting orchestra. Victor slurped tea from his *World’s Best Dad* mug—a gift from Annie last birthday—his newspaper crumpled beside him. Annie arranged photos on the sofa, but her fingers shook, her ring catching on the pages.
“Beth, I’m not daft,” Victor muttered, thudding his mug down. “You never mentioned this bloke! What secrets are you keeping? Thirty years married, and now this?”
Beth turned, her face flushed, gripping a chipped bowl.
“Secrets? You’re the one inventing them!” she shouted, voice cracking. “It’s just a photo, and you’re accusing me! Should I ask who you were with on those London business trips in the ’90s?”
Annie leapt in, her plait unravelling.
“Mum, Dad, stop, please!” she begged, eyes glistening. “It’s just a photo! Mum, tell us who it is, and we’ll move on. Don’t ruin my wedding over this!”
Victor huffed, his glasses fogging.
“Ruin it? Your mum’s hiding things! I’ve slaved for this family, and she can’t be honest?”
Beth hurled the bowl. It shattered.
“Slaved? And what have I done?” she yelled, eyes red. “Raised Annie, cooked your meals, kept this house! Now I’m just some nagging old woman to you!”
Annie grabbed the album. The page tore with a sharp rip.
Silence fell.
Beth gasped, hand to her chest. “Annie… this was my album. Mine and Alex’s. And now it’s ruined.”
Victor slumped, face ashen. “Bloody hell. I’m sorry. Beth, Annie, I—I lost my head.”
Annie hugged the album, tears streaking her cheeks. “My fault. I just wanted us to be a family, not enemies.” The torn photo lay between them—proof of their distrust.
The next day, Beth walked to the park where the photo was taken. The air smelled of lilacs, rain-damp grass, and candyfloss from a nearby stall. She sat by the old fountain, its spray weaker than thirty years ago, and remembered Alex, her brother, who’d died in a crash at twenty. His laugh, his dreams of being an artist, their last walk together. She wiped her sleeve across her eyes but couldn’t bring herself to tell Victor yet.
Meanwhile, Annie met her friend Katie at a café smelling of coffee, croissants, and cinnamon. Katie, helping with wedding plans, frowned over her cappuccino.
“Annie, why the long face? Wedding’s soon—shouldn’t you be happy?”
Annie sighed. “Mum and Dad are fighting over some old photo. Dad thinks it’s a lover, Mum’s furious he doesn’t trust her. What if they split? What about the wedding?”
Katie tapped her spoon. “Talk to your mum. That photo might not be what your dad thinks. Ask gently.”
That evening, Victor found an old diary of Beth’s in their bedroom but didn’t open it. Instead, he found her in the living room, using tape to mend the album, her hands unsteady.
“Beth, I’m sorry,” he said, sitting beside her. “But… who was he? I’m not angry. Just tell me.”
She sighed. “It’s not what you think. But it hurts to talk about. Give me time, okay?”
Victor nodded. “Alright. But I love you, Beth. Even when I’m a suspicious old git.”
She smiled faintly. “I love you too. Just don’t rip the album again. It meant a lot to Alex.”
“Alex?” Victor blinked. “That bloke in the photo?”
“Later,” she whispered.
At work the next day, Annie’s boss, Simon, noticed her distraction.
“Annie, wedding nerves? You’re miles away.”
She sighed. “Family drama. Over an old photo. They screamed, tore the album, and I don’t know how to fix it.”
Simon adjusted his glasses. “Talk to your mum. Sounds like she’s got something to say. Don’t let it spoil your day.”
That night, Annie rummaged for wedding jewellery in the hall cupboard. Behind shoes and scarves, she found an envelope tucked in the album’s back cover. *For my family*, read Beth’s neat writing. Inside was a letter:
*”If you found this, I couldn’t say it aloud. The man in the photo is my brother, Alex. We took this a month before his accident in 1990. He was my best friend, dreamed of being an artist. I never got to say goodbye. Love each other. Don’t fight. —Beth.”*
Annie burst into the kitchen, where coffee and apple pie scented the air. Beth was slicing dessert; Victor read the paper. The album, taped up, lay between them.
“Mum, Dad, look!” Annie thrust out the letter. “It’s about Alex. Why didn’t you tell us?”
Beth read aloud, voice breaking: *”Alex was my best friend. I keep this photo to remember his laugh. He’d want you happy.”* She wiped her eyes. “I couldn’t… the pain was too much.”
Victor stood, glasses steaming. “Beth, I’m a fool. Why didn’t you say? I knew Alex—he fixed my car once!”
She shook her head. “I didn’t want to cry. He was… part of me. You’re my family now. I thought the photo could stay my secret.”
Annie hugged her. “Mum, you’re not alone. Alex is part of us too.”
They spent the evening sharing stories—Alex’s jokes, his sunset sketches, teaching Beth to ride a bike by that fountain. Victor recalled how Alex helped fix his old Rover when they first dated.
A month later, the restored album held new wedding photos—Annie, Beth, and Victor laughing in the rain. One frame held Alex’s picture, no longer hidden. Over pie, Beth smiled.
“The album saved us. And Alex. He’d be proud.”
Annie squeezed her hand. “Now we’reAnd as the last page of the album turned, they finally understood that love wasn’t just about holding on but also knowing when to let go.
