21st June 1982, London, England.
Two maternity wards, two young women; each of them putting aside the pain and exhaustion of the preceding hours as they reach out to hold a new-born child.
Families and friends, school and work-mates, loosely connected by-standers, all influenced them as they grew, shaping their actions and recording their histories in photographs and memory.
Each boy was a first born son, growing up with the hope and expectation that brings, knowing that one day, in a different century, they would be expected to learn the family trade, take it on, build and nurture it to support another family.
Each of them thrived in the early years, spontaneously talkative and affectionate, confident in their parents' love.
Each struggled to make sense of the bitterness and struggle of the separation and divorce that came later.
Somewhere along the way, each defined a role for himself as guardian and protector, the man of the family; taking care of his mother whatever his disappointment in her; accepting the role of elder sibling, whatever the annoyances and embarrassments of a younger brother who was more than reasonably prone to seeking out trouble.
Both grew up tall and handsome.
Tomorrow, one will stand in Westminster Abbey, with the eyes of the world on him, as he pledges his love to the future queen of England.
I will be among the millions watching that boy on TV, but my hopes and my love will be with the other one. The boy relaxing with his friends over a pint or several, somewhere in south London. The one that the world will never know, but the one who makes me as proud as any mother of a king.
My son Gerard.