It was my cousin Keith’s seventy-third birthday a few days ago. In the wider scheme of things, not a particularly significant milestone—but for me, it stirred something unexpected.
I haven’t seen or heard from Keith, his twin brother Steven, or their younger sister Jackie in more than sixty years. As children, they were simply there—part of the family fabric. Then, quietly and completely, they disappeared from my life.
Nearly sixty years ago, their parents—my aunt and uncle—left Scotland for Canada, like so many others chasing the promise of a better life. A few years later, their marriage ended in divorce. From that point on, all contact with my aunt and cousins was lost. We remained in touch only with my uncle, who always insisted he didn’t know where they were or how to reach them.
Time passed. Decades, in fact.
Like many people, I eventually found myself drawn into the absorbing world of family history research. At first, it was names, dates, records—harmless curiosity. But then something unexpected happened. Facts began to surface about my cousins’ adult lives, and they were anything but ordinary.
Their unusual middle names made it possible to confirm records with confidence. Slowly, a picture formed. I even began speaking to people who had known them personally, validating what I was discovering.
My cousins had gone on to live remarkable lives. Jackie married a celebrity, and Keith and Steven worked closely with them. Their travels, opportunities, and lifestyle must have appeared idyllic from the outside. Yet behind the glamour lay something far darker.
Tragedy struck. Lives unravelled. Events unfolded that were later documented in autobiographies and biographies—painful, sobering accounts that made for heart-breaking reading. Back in Scotland, none of us knew any of this. The family fracture had sealed us off entirely from their reality.
Today, all but Keith have passed away.
I’ve tried to find him. I’ve contacted former social networks and even an ex-wife. Every lead fades into silence. It seems that Keith does not want to be found. And now I’m no longer sure what I would say if he were.
Family history research is often described as a way of discovering the past. What I didn’t expect was to stumble into tragedy that unfolded within my own lifetime—or to feel the weight of knowing I wasn’t there, that I couldn’t help, that I didn’t even know.
Some discoveries don’t bring closure. They simply leave you sitting with questions, regret, and a quiet sense of loss.
