The heir and the brother by Cassandra Sparks

There is definitely something odd and more revealing about a future king who cannot speak to his own brother than all the carefully choreographed smiles, handshakes and constitutional speeches in the world.

Prince William and Prince Harry have spent years turning a family disagreement into something resembling a permanent diplomatic freeze. Harry is now back in Britain with his family, yet reports continue to indicate that the brothers remain estranged and have not resumed meaningful communication.

That should matter, not because Britain needs another royal soap opera, but because William is supposed to become the country's head of state.

Of course, nobody should pretend that family reconciliation is easy. The brothers have accumulated grievances, accusations, humiliations and wounds sufficient to fill several royal biographies. Harry has publicly discussed private family matters; William has reportedly regarded those disclosures as a profound betrayal. Trust, once shattered, is not repaired merely because two people share a surname and a childhood bedroom.

But leadership is often precisely about dealing with things that are difficult, uncomfortable and deeply personal.

The future king does not have to forgive everything. He does not have to forget anything. He does not even have to invite Harry back into the institution. But surely he should be capable of finding a private channel through which two brothers can at least talk.

That is not weakness. It is emotional competence. William's defenders will argue that the responsibility lies equally with Harry. Fair enough. Harry is hardly an innocent bystander in this family catastrophe. His interviews, memoir and public accusations have made reconciliation considerably harder. The Sussexes have also built a public identity partly around their estrangement from the institution they left.

Yet William carries a different burden. Harry is not preparing to become king. William is. A constitutional monarch cannot run Britain as though every disagreement were a personal vendetta. The crown's fundamental political function is to represent continuity, stability and, ideally, a capacity to stand above factional quarrels. The monarchy asks the public to believe that its occupant can embody something larger than himself.

That becomes slightly harder to believe when the heir cannot resolve, or even apparently communicate through, the most important family rupture of his adult life.

There is an uncomfortable irony here. William's modernisation of the monarchy increasingly depends upon making it appear more human, approachable and emotionally intelligent. His public image has moved away from the stiff formality of earlier generations.

But humanity is not merely smiling for cameras. It is knowing when pride has become an obstacle.

Perhaps William believes that silence protects his family, his wife, his children and the institution. Perhaps he believes that Harry cannot be trusted. Those concerns are understandable. But silence also communicates something. It says that the dispute has become more important than reconciliation.

And that is where the question becomes larger than two brothers. A king cannot choose his relatives. He cannot choose every crisis that will confront his country. What he can choose is how he responds when relationships become difficult.

Britain does not need a future king who wins every family argument. It needs one mature enough to know that sometimes leadership begins with picking up the telephone.