'Faulty' by Rebecca Field

You never had an Uncle Kevin. Your cousins have no father; they were conceived by some kind of immaculate conception. Their red hair is a reflection of their Celtic ancestry. Your Aunt Yvonne never had a husband, there was no wedding, no bridesmaids wearing crimson and lace, no confetti, no reception where you played under a table with a cloth that reached the floor. There were no fights as you slept upstairs in bunk beds, no smashed plates, no clothes thrown out the front door in black bin bags. You’re too young to remember all that. That guitar in the attic isn’t his. That isn’t him you found on Facebook in the Brighton Pride march. There was only the black and white TV set with the faulty knob, the one where the volume turned down and down until finally it switched itself off.