No, Mum, I cant just throw away all her things! Natalie shouted, clutching the phone. Theyre junk, but theyre memories of Grandma!
Nat, dont yell, her mothers voice sounded tired and irritable over the line. Im not saying toss everything. You have no idea how much rubbish there isold rags, newspaper clippings, random boxes Gran never threw anything away.
And thats exactly why she kept them, Natalie snapped. While were always chasing the next gadget, she valued what she owned.
Valued, her mother sighed. Fine, sort it however you like. But the flat has to be cleared by the end of the week. The new owners are already signing the paperwork.
Natalie slammed the receiver down and looked around the cramped onebedroom flat on the outskirts of Manchester. The room seemed to shrink under the weight of every belonging. Grandmother Eleanor had slipped away quietly in her sleep, and barely a day after the funeral her daughter, Margaret, decided to sell. Why keep an empty flat half a mile from the centre? We need the cash, shed explained, handing the cleanup to Natalie.
Youre on holiday, Im working, Margaret said. Natalie didnt bother reminding her that the break was meant for a seaside escape, not for sifting through decades of handmedowns. In the end, Eleanor meant more to Natalie than she ever had to her own mother.
She started in the kitchen, pulling out plates and setting aside a few keepsakes: an antique teapot, a handpainted sugar bowl, and a set of pearlhandled teaspoons. The rest she boxed for charity.
By evening the ache in her back was a low hum. Natalie brewed tea in the old teapot, sank onto the sofa, and thumbed through faded photographs rescued from a dusty buffet. There was young Eleanor with a long braid looped around her headjust like Natalies. A teenage Margaret in a scouts neckerchief. And a tiny bundle cradled in Eleanors arms herself, no more than a wisp of a child.
Photographs of her grandfather were scarce. He had died before Natalie was born, and the family spoke of him only in hushed, reluctant tones. He was a good man; life just didnt work out for him, Margaret once muttered when Natalie pressed for details.
On day two Natalie tackled the bedroom. A mountain of clothingneatly folded nightgowns, woollen jumpers, bits of fabrictestified to Eleanors love of needlework. Almost every piece was old, but impeccably clean and pressed.
She methodically sorted each shelf and drawer. In the back corner of the wardrobe, behind a stack of sheets, lay a shoebox tied with twine. Natalie untied it carefully.
Inside were letters, several notebooks, and a battered diary bound in cracked leather. She grabbed a yellowed envelope stamped in the 1950s and read aloud: Dear Nini, writing from the road. Ill be arriving at the depot tomorrow The handwriting was neat, masculine. The signature read Yours, Andrew. The grandfathers name was Victor. Who was Andrew?
She set the letter aside and opened the diary. The first page, in Eleanors unmistakable script, read: Diary of Eleanor Harper. Commenced 12 April 1954.
Night fell as she sank deeper into the pages. Young Eleanor wrote about university life, friends, and her first loveAndrew, the man from the letter. Theyd met at a dance, fallen in love, made plans, then he was called up for national service.
June 1956: Received a letter from Andrew. He says hell be home soon. I miss him terribly.
November 1956: Andrew left again. Those two weeks were the happiest of my life. Well wait a year for his discharge and marry as soon as he returns. I keep his photo under my pillow.
The diary brimmed with declarations, anxieties, hopesuntil February 1957, when the script faltered, trembled: Today I received news. Andrew died on duty. No details. I cant believe it. I dont want to believe it. How do I go on?
Natalies throat tightened. Her grandmothers first love had ended in tragedy. The next entries described Eleanors descent into a deep depression, then the arrival of Victor, a comrade of the fallen, who came to console her. He proved reliable, and a tentative friendship formed.
10 September 1957. Victor proposed. I dont love him like I loved Andrew, but hes good, dependable. Mum says I should settle, Im twentythree now, time for a family. Yet I cant let go of Andrew
Their wedding was modest. Eleanor wrote she tried to be a good wife, but Andrews memory haunted her. Victor seemed to sense it without ever saying a word.
Then a shocking entry stopped Natalies breath: 20 June 1958. Im three months pregnant, but the child isnt Victors. Before Victor left on deployment I met SashaAndrews cousin. Wed known each other even when Andrew was alive. He looks just like Andrew The same eyes, the same gestures. We ran into each other in the park, talked about Andrew, and one night it felt like a nightmare, a flash of Andrew. I regret it, but now Im carrying a child. Victor believes its his, hes overjoyed I cant tell him the truth. It would kill him, but living a lie is beyond me. God, what do I do?
Natalie slammed the diary shut. The room seemed to spin. Her mother wasnt Eleanors daughter after all? Who was the real grandfatherSasha, Andrews cousin? The pieces were colliding.
She flipped forward and found that Eleanor never disclosed the truth to Victor. Ill keep the secret for Victor, for the child. No one will ever know. When her own mother was born, Eleanor wrote she couldnt look at her: Little Tania looks exactly like Andrewsame eyes, same face shape. If Sasha saw the photo hed realise.
The entries grew sparse, ending in 1965: Today Tania turned seven. Victor loves her like his own. Theyre building a birdhouse for the summer cottage. I see now blood isnt everything. Victor is the real father. The secret stays buried. I close this diary forever. Goodbye, past life.
Natalie stared at the empty pages, a storm of questions raging. Had Margaret ever known? She always spoke fondly of her father Victor, never hinting at a hidden lineage. Was Sasha still alive, perhaps in his eighties? Did she have halfsiblings shed never met?
At the bottom of the last box she uncovered a faded photograph: a young soldier in a cap, smiling at the camera. The back read Andrew, 1955. Beside it, another image, labelled Sasha, 1958, showed a man with softer features and lighter hair, unmistakably reminiscent of the first.
She held the two photos up to the mirror in the wardrobe, comparing the reflected eyes and jawline to her own. The likeness was undeniable. No wonder Margaret had always asked, Why dont you look like Dad? The answer lay in a tangled web of two wartime men.
She wondered whether to tell her mother or keep the secret. As she turned the box over, the front door slammed open.
Nat! Are you in there? Margarets voice snapped her back.
Yes, in the bedroom! Natalie shouted, hastily shoving the diary and photos back into the box.
Margaret stepped in, eyes scanning the chaos. Hows it going? I thought Id drop by after work to help.
Fine, Natalie managed a nervous grin. Just taking it slow.
Margarets gaze landed on the box of letters. Whats that?
Oh, just Grandmas letters and diaries. I havent gone through all of them yet.
Diaries? Margaret raised an eyebrow. I didnt know you kept one.
She moved closer, and Natalie realized the concealment was over.
Mum, did you ever wonder why Grandma never talked much about her youth? Natalie asked gently.
No, why? Margaret sat on the edge of the bed. She just didnt like reminiscing, thats all. Everyones different.
Did you know she had a suitor before Victor? A man named Andrew who died in the army? Natalie pressed.
Ive heard something about that, Margaret admitted cautiously. Is it in the diary?
Yes, and more, Natalie took a deep breath. Mum, are you sure you want to hear this?
Margarets face hardened. Tell me straight.
The diary says Victor isnt your biological father. The room fell silent, the ticking of the old clock louder than any word.
What nonsense is that? Margaret shouted, snatching the diary. She slipped on her reading glasses and flipped to the page Natalie indicated. Her expression shifted from shock to disbelief, then to anger.
This cant be true, she whispered, finishing the line. Dad always said I was his spitting image
Nobodys trying to erase Victors love for you, Natalie said softly, laying a hand on her mothers. He raised you, cared for you. Biology is just biology.
Why didnt she tell us? Margarets voice cracked. I had a right to know!
She was scared of tearing the family apart, Natalie replied. And Andrews cousin, Sasha, never knew. At least thats what the diary says.
Margaret thumbed through the pages, searching for a contradiction. Im sixty now, lived my whole life in the dark. What do I do with this? Should I look for Sasha? Hed be eightyplus, if hes still alive.
Its your choice, Natalie said, sitting beside her. Maybe you have halfsiblings you never met. Our family could be bigger than we thought.
Margaret shook her head. I need time to process this. I cant imagine how to view my own mother now. So many lies
It wasnt a lie, just a silence, Natalie offered. She did it for your happiness.
Easy for you to say! Margaret snapped. My world just flipped upside down!
Natalie stayed quiet, feeling the weight of her mothers turmoil. After a pause, Margarets shoulders softened.
I always wondered why I didnt look like Victor. Hes steady, measured, while Im restless, chasing everything. Mum said I resembled her father, but I never saw a picture of him She held up the faded photo of Sasha, studying his features. He does look like me especially the eyes.
So the blood of two soldiers runs through usAndrew and Sasha, Natalie said with a faint smile. No wonder Im so stubborn.
Margaret managed a weak grin. You cant cheat genetics.
Thanks to you finding that diary, she said, voice a little warmer. Truth can be bitter, but its better than living blind.
What now? Search for relatives? Margaret asked, tracing the edge of Sashas photograph.
Maybe, Natalie said, thoughtful. But first we finish clearing the flat. Life goes on, regardless of revelations.
Could we postpone the sale? Margaret suggested cautiously. Give us a month to sort through everything, maybe find an address or a clue.
Sure, Natalie replied, surprised by her mothers sudden acquiescence. Ill call the estate agent and put it on hold. Seventy years of secrets can wait a little longer.
They sat on Eleanors old armchair, surrounded by the remnants of a life long gone, each lost in their own thoughts. Natalie marveled at how a single decisionopening a diarycould ripple through generations. Margaret contemplated what it meant to be a daughter, how love could outshine blood, and how truth sometimes arrived too late.
I’m not angry with Grandma, Margaret finally said. She did what she thought was right. And Victor hell always be my real father, no matter what the pages say.
I get it, Natalie nodded. Family isnt just DNA.
Margaret gently closed the diary, slipped it back into the box, but kept Sashas photograph in her hand. Ill keep this, she whispered. A piece of my story I never knew existed.
Natalie embraced her mother, feeling a new closeness forged by shared revelation. The world outside continued its relentless march, but within the cramped Manchester flat, love lingered, bridging decades and hidden histories. Grandmother Eleanor had taken her secret to the grave, but she left behind a diarya bridge between past and future, proof that every family carries a universe of feelings, choices, and destinies.
