The Picture — a short story for English reading and speaking

Andrew had been given the job of clearing out the house.

His mum and dad were both gone. First Dad, three years ago. Then Mum two years later. Now, the family home stood silent, heavy with memories, waiting to be emptied.

His sister Kate couldn’t face it. Any time she stepped through the door, she dissolved into tears.

“I can’t deal with this,” she had said. “It’s too much.”

So Andrew had taken it on himself. He told her to focus on her daughter and the chaos of college applications. It was easier that way.

“It’s just old stuff anyway,” he said.

He stood alone in the hallway now, a scrap of paper and a pen in his hands, ticking off rooms and deciding what to do with the furniture. Most of it would go to a second-hand store. Neither he nor Kate wanted any of it. Too many ghosts clung to the fabric of those armchairs, too many echoes lived in the creak of that wooden floor.

But the attic was different. That was where the real weight lived—the photographs, the memorabilia, the little forgotten fragments of their parents’ lives.

He climbed the narrow attic stairs and pushed open the hatch. Dust motes swirled in the sunbeams cutting through the skylight. The room smelled of old paper and wood polish. It was warmer than he expected.

Andrew sat in a rickety chair and began sorting through boxes. Books yellowed at the edges. Knick-knacks from forgotten holidays. Handwritten letters in envelopes with curling corners. And photographs—so many photographs.

He flipped through stacks of them: holidays in Cornwall, summer days in the garden, birthdays, family dinners. His father had always used a film camera. The images had a different quality to them—softer, warmer, more alive.

The photos stirred up emotions he had tried to suppress. He smiled at one where Kate was wearing a crown made of paper and holding a slice of birthday cake. Then his eyes welled with tears as he spotted another, a candid shot of his mum in the kitchen, caught mid-laugh.

He found a shoebox bound with old sticky tape. On the lid, in his mother’s handwriting in capital letters: OLD PHOTOS. DON’T THROW OUT.

Curious, Andrew sliced through the tape with his pocket knife and opened the box. Inside was another bundle of photographs—these older than the rest. As he flipped through them, something strange caught his attention.

These were pictures of himself as a child, but younger than he remembered in the other photos. In some, he was alone. But in others, there was another boy.

Not a cousin. Not a neighbour. Someone unfamiliar.

The boy had darker hair, and he was bigger. Older. He appeared in multiple photos, always close to Andrew. In one, the boy held his hand protectively as they walked along the garden path. In another, they were playing football—Andrew laughing, the boy in mid-kick.

Andrew frowned. Who was this?

He found a photo of the boy sitting on the big red sofa with Andrew and Daniel, a cousin.

The boy was holding a picture book, telling a story with exaggerated gestures. Andrew and Daniel watched him with rapt attention.

There were more.

The boy sitting on Dad’s lap behind the wheel of the car, grinning, pretending to drive.

The boy washing the car with Dad, scrubbing a wheel with determined energy.

The boy helping Mum decorate a Christmas tree, placing a bauble carefully near the top while she smiled at him.

In each one, the boy wasn’t just present—he was part of the family.

Andrew’s heart began to pound. He picked up a close-up photograph. The boy’s face was captured in a candid moment, laughing at something off-camera. His eyes, that lopsided smile—there was something hauntingly familiar in them. Something in the angle of the cheekbones, the slight crease near the mouth.

He looked like Andrew.

He looked like Kate.

Andrew dropped the photo, his fingers trembling.

He stared at the pile of pictures around him, then slowly leaned back against the attic wall.

This boy—this unknown boy—was not a visitor. Not a friend. Not a neighbour’s child.

He was family.

Their brother.

An older brother.

Andrew tried to breathe, but his chest tightened. Why hadn’t anyone ever said anything? Why were there no stories, no offhand comments, no evidence at all—except this hidden shoebox?

He thought of Kate. She wouldn’t know. She’d have told him if she did. And their cousins? The older ones—they might remember. Had they kept this secret too?

Andrew’s mind whirled, grasping for answers that didn’t exist.

He picked up the photos again and turned them over, looking for dates or names. Nothing.

What had happened to him?

Where had he gone?

And why had he been erased?

Was it grief? Shame? Tragedy?

Or something worse?

Andrew gathered the photos and placed them carefully back in the box, his hands unsteady. His parents had kept these hidden. His mother had written Don’t Throw Out, as though they mattered deeply. As though they should not be forgotten—but also never discussed.

He stared at the shoebox for a long moment.

This changed everything. His image of his family—the shape of it, the weight of it—had always been incomplete. And now, it could never be the same again.

He reached for the attic light cord and stood. The bulb flickered once before darkness swallowed the room.

Carrying the box, Andrew made his way slowly down the stairs. The house, stripped of furniture and almost empty, felt heavier now than it ever had before.

He paused in the hallway, staring at the front door.

Tomorrow, he would call his oldest cousin.

He would ask.

And if no one told him the truth, he would find it himself.

Because some secrets might stay hidden for years.

But they don’t always want to stay that way.