The man in the background

I was scanning old family photos for my dad's sixtieth when I noticed him.

A man in a grey coat, in the background of our holiday photo from 1998. Blurry, half turned away, standing by a bin on the seafront. Just a stranger.

Then I saw him in 1999, in a crowd behind my mum at a market in Spain. Same coat. In 2001, at my cousin's wedding, standing at the edge of the dance floor. In 2004, in the reflection of a car window behind my brother's school photo.

Every year he was there. And every year he was a little closer.

By 2015 he was at the next table in the restaurant, facing the camera. By 2020 he was standing just behind my dad's shoulder, close enough to touch him. You could see his face clearly now. He was smiling. Nobody in the family remembered him.

I didn't say anything at the party. I didn't know how.

We took a family photo at the end of the night, all of us lined up on the sofa. My mum printed it the next morning.

The man in the grey coat is sitting in the middle, where my dad was.

My dad isn't in the picture at all. And this morning, neither was he.