Brooklyn Beckham has declared he has no interest in reconciling with his parents, David and Victoria Beckham, accusing them of trying to “endlessly ruin [his] relationship” with wife Nicola Peltz, sabotaging their wedding, and attempting to control the media narrative around the family’s fallout.
“I have been silent for years and made every effort to keep these matters private,” Brooklyn wrote in a series of Instagram Stories on Monday. “Unfortunately, my parents and their team have continued to go to the press, leaving me with no choice but to speak for myself and tell the truth about only some of the lies that have been printed. I do not want to reconcile with my family. I’m not being controlled, I’m standing up for myself for the first time in my life.”
Brooklyn’s candid post is the latest escalation in the now very public feud between the 26-year-old and his superstar British parents, which has seen the family members noticeably absent from each other’s milestone events, blocked on social media, and rumors of legal notices being fired off.
Rolling Stone has reached out to a representative for the Beckhams for comment.
The aspiring chef seemed to tie the start of their astonishing rift to his Palm Beach wedding to Peltz in April 2022. Weeks ahead of the over-the-top affair, which was estimated to have cost upwards of $3 million, Brooklyn claimed his parents “repeatedly pressured and attempted to bribe me into signing away the rights to my name … they were adamant on me signing before my wedding date because then the terms of the deal would be initiated. My holdout affected the payday, and they never treated me the same since.”
Brooklyn also claimed his mother, Victoria, who rose to fame as Posh in the iconic girl group the Spice Girls and has since become a celebrated fashion designer, “cancelled” making Peltz’s dress “in the eleventh hour … forcing her to urgently find a new dress.” On the day of the wedding, Brooklyn claimed Victoria further “humiliated” the newlyweds by “hijacking” his first dance with Peltz.
He also accused his father, David, of ignoring a week’s worth of the couple’s attempts to spend “quality time” with the soccer legend to celebrate his 50th birthday last May. “He refused all of our attempts, unless it was at his big birthday party with a hundred guests and cameras at every corner,” Brooklyn wrote. “When he finally agreed to see me, it was under the condition that Nicola wasn’t invited. It was a slap in the face. Later, when my family travelled to LA, they refused to see me at all.”
“My wife has been consistently disrespected by my family, no matter how hard we’ve tried to come together as one,” Brooklyn added. “My family values public promotion and endorsements above all else. Brand Beckham comes first. Family ‘love’ is decided by how much you post on social media, or how quickly you drop everything to show up and pose for a family photo opp, even if it’s at the expense of our professional obligations.”
Brooklyn said he’s lived with overwhelming anxiety for a majority of his life, but after “stepping away from my family, that anxiety has disappeared,” saying he has since found “peace and relief.”
Donald Trump and FIFA President Gianni Infantino stand as Spain celebrates its World Cup victory, on July 19, 2026.
America Got the World Cup It Deserves — Good and Bad
For the past six weeks or so I’ve been having a recurring fight with my friends. The dispute is over whether or not it’s ethical to support the U.S. national team in the World Cup.
To the vast majority of people reading this article, this is an absurd question: of course you can and should support the United States Men’s National Team, you weirdo. And look, I’m with you. But despite the fact that my friends are pompous dorks who are no fun to watch the game with, the question they raise is valid: Are our national teams avatars of the administration in power, or of the people and promise of that country?
If you believe the former, then yeah, it’s pretty fucking weird to support the USMNT. In doing so, by that thinking, you’d be engaging in a sort of athletic nationalism on behalf of a country run by Donald Trump, the most corrupt president in history, who forced the Iranian national team to flee across the border immediately after the final whistle of each of their games, whose federal police have shot numerous civilians dead in the street during a brutal immigration crackdown, who has started a war and supported a genocide while covering up his close personal friendship with the most notorious pedophile in modern history.
I mean just look at him. On Sunday he waddled down onto the field to present Spain with their trophy, lingering on stage with the victorious team as they tried to celebrate. The presence of Mexican President Claudia Steinbaum and Canadian Prime Minister Mark Carney did little to dilute the image of Trump standing next to his crony Gianni Infantino, grinning at all the trappings of their power, hands caressing a trophy they’d done nothing to earn, lingering well past his cue to leave Spain to their glory. This World Cup, literally, had Donald Trump’s fingerprints all over it.
And yet, this was one of the most thrilling, beautiful World Cups in recent memory. That’s America, baby — contradictions abound.
Over the past five weeks of the greatest athletic competition on Earth, we’ve seen games that will literally never leave my memory. The final, which I attended yesterday in New Jersey, was remarkably forgettable — a 0-0 draw until the 106th minute, with Spain dominating every second of play and yet unable to score, undone time and time again by their insistence on tricksy passing and the personal heroics of Argentina’s goalkeeper Emi Martinez. The rest of the tournament, however, delivered. Cabo Verde, refusing to lose until the very last moments of the first knockout round, battling back again and again against both teams that would eventually play in the final. The sheer dominance of France’s Kylian Mbappe in front of goal, scoring at will, rivaled only by the aging GOAT Leo Messi and the Norwegian warlord Erling Haaland. England’s heroic stand at the Estadio Azteca in Mexico City, 45 minutes in the rain, a man down, holding out for the win and singing “Wonderwall” with what felt like half the stadium when it ended. Off the pitch, too: the Algerian national team being welcomed with open arms by Lawrence, Kansas; Scottish braves drinking Boston dry and partying wildly with Haitian fans that overcame so much just to be at the tournament. In Mexico, of course, the World Cup was everything, and its fans threw joyous South Koreans pumped full of tequila into the air, and celebrated in the streets with opposing fans even after their hard-fought defeat to England.
For the United States, what the 2026 World Cup was — what our team was, what our fans were, what our performance as hosts was — is a reflection of two things at once: what our nation is and what it can be.
Our star striker, Folarin Balogun, was born here by accident, a citizen only because of a birthright system that our president is currently trying to erase. We have Ricardo and Giovanni and Freeman and Zendejas. We have another striker whose name is Haji, for goodness sake. I look at that team and I see the country America can be, one in which any soul born in or living within our arbitrary borders can become part of a great national project that seeks to improve the lives of everyone it can. And yet, I can also look at that team and see a reflection of what the country is, because there is an anchor around its neck. When Balogun was — albeit unjustly — suspended for a crucial match, Trump himself stepped in. Cronyism saved the day and got Balogun reinstated, but ruined the fragile harmony the team had enjoyed. On the pitch against Belgium, they came apart. Temperamental star Christian Pulisic tried to go alone and then quit, aging defender Tim Ream’s legs failed him when he needed them most, a young goalkeeper slipped and fell when he had no good options for support.
What more can you say about a team, about our country? The team is an entity that is capable of more but still has so far to go, that is vulnerable to the same forces of avarice and selfishness and fear that plague our national identity writ large.
It’s possible to end the story there, to say good riddance to another failed year and fractured team. But I think that’s a mistake. I think if you believe that you haven’t really been watching. I think that’s also why it pissed me off so much that some of my friends wouldn’t root for the U.S. Yes, we have flaws, like every country involved in the tournament. Yes, our current team management and political government are filled with morons. But if you won’t put on the shirt you’re essentially opting out of our future. We can’t wait around for a better world, a better team, a better president, before we deign to lend our support. Progress only comes from effort, from caring, from believing in something more.
One of my favorite images of the World Cup was a crowd shot of the opening match against Paraguay in Los Angeles: every race, color and creed of American there is, all covered in red white and blue. It’s corny and trite, sure. But that’s what it’s all about. That’s why we’re here. You have to believe. The U.S. won that game 4-2. In four years, we’ll be even better.