29October2025
Dear Diary,
This evening I finally managed to upload a picture from our recent family break to the social network. Emma had been lounging on the sofa, legs tucked under her, scrolling through the snaps on her tablet. Look at this, love! she called, pointing at a shot of her, our twelveyearold son Milo and herself on the Brighton promenade, the sea sparkling behind them and a white launch bobbing in the distance. Andrew, see how funny we look with Milo!
I was halfheartedly working on the household spreadsheet, the one I keep each month with obsessive care, when I glanced over her shoulder. Nice, I said, though my mind was already on the numbers. The holiday was great, but weve made a proper dent in this months budget.
Emma protested, We havent been anywhere all year, Andy! We saved up for this. You kept telling me we needed a break, that Milo deserved a beach holiday.
I sighed. Talking is one thing, looking at the final figures is another. Well have to tighten the belt next month, and Im afraid well have to scrap Milos summer camp.
Youre cancelling his camp? she asked, crestfallen. Hed been looking forward to the hikes, the kayaking
Itll be fine. He can stay at his nans cottage for fresh air. Itll do him good. Lets not argue Ive made up my mind.
Emma fell silent. Arguing about money with me never gets far. Im a reliable husband and father, but when it comes to cash Im as hard as granite. Every penny counts; I pride myself on our safety cushion, the bank account we set aside for unexpected expenses. Emma sometimes mutters that the cushion is too stiff, yet deep down she appreciates the security my planning gives us.
She chose what she thought was the perfect picture: the three of us, sunkissed and smiling, the sea lapping behind us, the white launch glinting. She hit post and added a simple caption: Our little slice of southern happiness. Within minutes a cascade of likes and comments rolled in: You look wonderful!, Where did you go?, Stunning! Emma replied with a grin, warmed by the virtual applause.
An hour later, while I was prepping dinner, the phone rang. The screen read Zoë. Shes my sisterinlaw, and we get on famously.
Hey Zoë, how are you? I answered cheerily.
Instead of her usual upbeat tone, a sobbing voice crackled through. Andrew is this true?
Whats true, Zoë? Whats happened?
The photo the one online is it a fake?
Its just a family holiday snap. Explain, youre scaring me!
Look in the background, near the launch theres a man in a white shirt. Is that is that David?
My heart stopped. David my best mate from university, the husband of my close friend Irene. Hed died three years ago in a horrific crash on the M6; the car went up in flames and he was laid to rest in a sealed coffin. The loss had shattered us all. Id turned grey, seemed a decade older. Irene, his widow, was still struggling, raising their daughter alone, scraping by from week to week.
No, Zoë, youre seeing things. Davids dead.
No! I recognise him! The mole on his neck, his watch! Please, Andrew, look closely!
I dropped the knife, wiped my hands, and raced back to the tablet. I enlarged the image. Amid the smiling family, the white launch, there indeed stood a group of people. A man in a crisp white shirt and light trousers was halfturned, chatting with a woman who held a little girls hand. I zoomed in further; the quality was grainy, but the shoulders, the tilt of the head, the watch on his wrist the very watch wed all gifted David and him for his thirtieth birthday were unmistakable. The mole on his neck peeked out from under his collar.
It was him. Alive. Healthy. With another woman, another child.
The world seemed to tilt. I sank back into my chair, stunned. This could not be real; it had to be some cruel prank.
You see? Zoë wailed. Hes alive and Irene has been crying herself to sleep for three years, working three jobs, raising her daughter alone, while hes off living a new life! How could he just run away?
I I dont know, Zoë. Ill call you back.
I hung up, staring at the photo of our happy faces, feeling like a fool, naïve and blinded. My mind, still numb, began to piece together the fragments.
Every month Id sent a transfer, claiming it was for my elderly aunt in Bournemouth who supposedly needed extra pension because her health was failing. Emma never questioned it; an aunt is an aunt.
My hushed phone calls in the study, the clipped sentences Yes, received. No, she doesnt know. Dont worry. Id always assumed were workrelated.
The sudden stinginess that appeared three years ago, the relentless mantra to save, save, save, the refusal to fund Milos camp it all fit. He wasnt helping an aunt; he was helping his dead friend. Hed been part of a monstrous deception, siphoning money from our family, denying our son joys, to fund a new, happy existence for a man who should have been buried.
The front door clicked open. I returned, humming a tune, and asked, Whats that wonderful smell?
Emma stared, tablet in hand, her face pale. Something happened, Andrew? she asked, voice tighter than before.
Its your sister, I said, keeping my tone even. She asked about Aunt Lucy from Bournemouth. She must be missing us.
What does Aunt Lucy have to do with this? she asked, brow furrowed.
Turns out Lucys settled down in the south, near the sea, looking younger. Shes now called David. I swiped the enlarged image onto the screen. For a split second his face turned ashen, then grey.
Andrew, Ill explain
No, I cut her off. I dont want your lies anymore. How much have you sent him in three years? A hundred pounds? Two hundred? A thousand? How much of our money have you stolen from us, from me, from Milo?
I didnt steal! he snapped. I was helping a friend! He was in debt, they would have killed him! The only way out was to disappear, start over!
And Irene? Her daughter? Theyre not in trouble! I shouted. His wife thought shed been widowed at twentyeight! His little girl growing up without a dad! Did you ever think of them when you were feeding this cheat?
Irene is strong. Shell manage, he muttered. David had no choice.
Theres always a choice, Andrew! I lunged, my fist striking the table like a gunshot. You chose him over us! You lied every day! Every time you said we couldnt afford Milos camp, you were lying! Every time I patched his jeans because there was no money for new ones, you were lying! You made me an accomplice to your deception!
He lowered his head, speechless.
One more thing, I whispered. Our seaside trip we didnt end up in Brighton by accident, did we? You wanted to see him, didnt you?
He gave a slow nod.
That was the final drop. The whole holiday, our little slice of happiness, had been a cover for his secret rendezvous. Emma and Milo were merely scenery in his twisted play.
I grabbed my phone, my fingers trembling, and dialed.
Who are you calling? Andrew asked, alarmed.
Where truth still lives, I replied.
On the other end, Zoës voice, now steadier, said, Zoë, put me through to Irene.
Marilyn, maybe we shouldnt? she hesitated.
We must. She deserves to know. Weve lived a lie for far too long.
Andrew stared at me, horror dawning. He knew the world was about to crumble his secret, his life. He moved toward me, trying to snatch the phone.
Dont touch it, I hissed, my eyes cold with fury.
A tired, resigned voice floated from the line. Yes, Im listening.
I took a deep breath. Irene, hello. We need to talk about David.
I sat at the table, back to my husband, unsure what tomorrow would bring divorce, a split of assets, Milos tears. But I was doing the only thing I could: returning the stolen truth to the woman whose entire life had been robbed. It was the first step of my own liberation.
A single photograph can shatter the illusion of a perfect life and expose a terrifying reality.
Lesson learned: when trust is built on lies, even the brightest picture will eventually reveal the darkness behind it.
