There are many reasons the only marriage I’ve ever had failed, and there were clues as early as our wedding day that things were going to go bad, if
not immediately, then some time shortly after that. (In the event, it took the traditional
seven years for things to truly fall apart, but I spent six of those getting
pregnant, giving up smoking, having children, getting very fat, taking up smoking again, getting very
thin, and going mad. So they don’t count.)
I examined it closely. “My brother’s face is partly obscured?” I guessed.
"My other sister looks like she has antennae?"
“I’m not in it.”
My ex-husband actually showed remarkable good humour about this. He took the picture off the wall, and carefully prised open the back. Then he went through our wedding pictures and chose a suitable one of himself, which he cropped into a head-and-shoulders format. This, he glued into the top right-hand corner of the pic, in much the same way as a member of a sports team who isn't present on the day the team photograph is taken, is represented in a school magazine. Then he put the frame back together and hung it back on the wall. And that's how it stayed until my mother finally realised what had happened, and with much apologetic bowing and scraping, replaced the pic with one that included the groom.