April 28
Ive been sorting through my late grandmother Eleanors things and, tucked away in an old wooden chest, I found her diary. It revealed a secret about my own father that I never imagined.
Mom, I cant just throw all her stuff away! I shouted into the phone, clutching it tight. It may be old, but its her memory.
Emily, calm down, my mothers voice sounded weary. Im not telling you to toss everything. You have no idea how much junk is in therecloth from the thirties, newspaper clippings, random boxes Grandmother never threw anything away.
I know, but unlike us, always chasing the next gadget, she cherished what she owned, I replied stubbornly.
My dear, do what you must. Just remember we have to empty the flat by the end of the week. The new owners are already signing the paperwork, she said, sighing.
I hung up and stared around the cramped onebedroom council flat on the outskirts of Birmingham. The space felt even smaller with every box and suitcase that filled every nook. Eleanor had passed away peacefully in her sleep, and my mother, barely having finished the funeral, decided to sell the flat. Why keep an empty flat in another part of town? We need the money, she explained. She handed the task of sifting through eight decades of possessions to me.
Dont forget youre on holiday, and Im still at work, she said. I didnt remind her that my holiday was supposed to be a seaside break, not a marathon of rummaging through old cupboards. Still, Eleanor meant more to me than to my own mother.
I started in the kitchen, sorting the china. I set aside a few keepsakes: an antique tea kettle, a handpainted sugar bowl, and a set of pearlhandled teaspoons. The rest I boxed for charity.
By evening my back ached. I brewed tea in Eleanors kettle and settled on the sofa, leafing through faded photographs Id found in the pantry. There was Grandma young, her hair in a long braid, uncannily like mine. My mother as a schoolgirl in a crisp blazer and badge. And a tiny bundle in my grandmothers armsme, as a newborn.
Strangely, there were almost no pictures of my grandfather Victor. He had died before I was born, and the family never spoke much of him. He was a good man, but life didnt go his way, my mother once said when I pressed for details.
The second day I tackled the bedroom. A mountain of clothingneatly folded nightgowns, woollen sweaters, swatches of fabricmade me feel bleak. Eleanor had loved to sew. Everything was old, but impeccably clean and ironed.
I methodically checked each shelf and drawer. In the back corner of the wardrobe, behind a stack of sheets, I discovered a shoebox tied with twine. Inside were letters, a few notepads, and a battered school notebook bound in brown leather. I pulled out one envelope, yellowed and stamped from the 1950s.
Dear Ellie, writing from the road. Ill be arriving tomorrow the neat, masculine handwriting read. It was signed Yours, Andrew. My grandfather was Victor, so who was this Andrew?
I set the letter aside and opened the notebook. The first page, in Eleanors looping script, read: Eleanor Whitakers Diary. Began 12 April 1954.
Night fell before I could read further. In the early entries, a young Eleanor wrote about university life, friends, and her first loveAndrew, the same name from the letter. They had met at a dance, fallen in love, and made plans, until he was called up for national service.
August 1956 entry: Received a letter from Andrew. He says hell be home soon. I miss him terribly.
November 1956: Andrew left again. These two weeks were the happiest of my life. Ill wait a year for his discharge. Weve decided to marry as soon as he returns. For now I keep his photograph under my pillow.
The pages brimmed with love, hope, and anxietyuntil February 1957, when the handwriting grew shaky.
Today I got the news. Andrew died on duty. No details were given. I cant believe it. I dont want to believe it. How do I go on?
I closed the notebook, a lump forming in my throat. My grandmothers first love had ended in tragedy, which explained why she never spoke of him.
The next day I learned that after Andrews death, Eleanor fell into a deep depression. Victor, a fellow soldier, came to her, offering support. Their friendship grew into something practical.
10 September 1957. Victor proposed. I dont love him like I loved Andrew, but hes kind and reliable. Mother says I should settle down; Im twentythree, its time for a family. Yet I cant let go of Andrew Eleanor wrote.
Their wedding was modest. Eleanor tried to be a good wife, but Andrews memory haunted her. Victor seemed to sense it, but never pressed.
Then a shocking entry stopped me cold:
20 June 1958. Im pregnant, three months along. The child isnt Victors. Before Victors deployment, I met Sama cousin of Andrewsat a park. We talked about Andrew, and one night it felt like I was with Andrew again. It was a mistake Ill regret forever, but now Im carrying his child. Victor believes the baby is his. I cant tell him the truth; it would destroy him. What should I do, God?
My heart pounded. Could it be that my mothers father Victor wasnt my biological grandfather? That Sam, Andrews cousin, was my real grandfather?
I flipped through more pages. Eleanor never told Victor the truth, protecting the familys peace. When my mother was born, Eleanor wrote, I cant look her in the eye; she looks so much like Andrewsame eyes, same face shape. Sam would have recognized her if hed seen a photo, but hes now in Liverpool and we never meet again. Better this way, less temptation to tear the family apart.
The entries grew sparse, ending in 1965: Today Emma turned seven. Victor loves her, theyre building a birdhouse together. Blood isnt everything. Victor is the father she needs. Im closing this diary forever. Goodbye, past life.
I set the notebook down, a storm of questions swirling. Did my mother ever know? Shed always spoken fondly of Victor as her dad. Was Sam still alive, perhaps in his eighties? Did I have cousins I never knew about?
At the bottom of the box I found a faded photograph of a young soldier in a cap, captioned Andrew, 1955. Beside it was another labelled Sam, 1958. The two men looked almost identical; Sams features were softer, his hair lighter.
I stared at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror and saw the same eyes, the same jawline. No wonder my mother always said, I dont look like my father. The pieces finally fit.
Should I tell her? Does she have a right to know that the man shes called dad all her life isnt her biological father?
Lost in thought, I didnt hear the front door slam.
Emily! Are you in there? Moms voice snapped me back.
Yes, in the bedroom! I shouted, hastily shoving the diary and photos back into the box.
She popped her head in, eyes scanning the chaos.
Hows it going? I thought Id swing by after work to help.
Fine, I managed a weak smile. Just going through things.
She noticed the box of letters.
Whats that?
Just Grandmas old letters and diaries. I havent read everything yet.
Diaries? I didnt know she kept one. She walked over, eyebrows raised.
I knew I couldnt hide it any longer.
Mom, I began gently, did you ever wonder why Grandma never talked much about her youth?
No, not really. She just didnt like dwelling on the past. Whats the point?
Did you know she had a fiancé before Victor? A man named Andrew who died in the army?
Ive heard whispers, she said cautiously. Is it in the diary?
Yes, and more, I sighed. Mom, are you sure you want to know?
She frowned. Tell me straight.
It says Victor isnt your biological father.
Silence hung heavy, punctuated only by the ticking of the old mantel clock.
What rubbish? she finally snapped. Give me that diary.
I handed it over. She put on her reading glasses and flipped through. Her face shifted from surprise to shock, then anger.
This cant be Dad always said I was his spitting image.
Mom, I said softly, placing my hand on hers, whats written doesnt erase the love Victor gave you. He raised you, cared for you. Biology is just biology.
Why didnt she tell us? My mothers voice trembled. I had a right to know!
She was scared of breaking the family, I whispered. And Sam never knew either, at least thats what the diary says.
She turned pages frantically, hoping for a denial.
Im sixty now, she murmured. Ive lived my whole life not knowing. Should I now look for Sam? Hed be over eighty if hes still alive.
Its up to you, I said, sitting beside her. But maybe you have halfsiblings you never met. Our family could be bigger than we thought.
She shook her head. I need time to process this. I cant even think how to relate to my own mother now. So many lies
It wasnt lies, just silence, for our sake.
She snapped, Easy for you to say! Your world just got turned upside down!
I stayed quiet. My shock was nothing compared to hers. She kept turning the pages, the photographs, the ink smudging under her fingers, until her expression softened.
You know, she said after a pause, I always wondered why I didnt look like Victor. Hes calm and methodical; Im restless, impulsive. Mum used to say I resemble her father, but we never saw his picture. Now I see why.
She studied Sams photo, eyes lingering on the familiar eyes.
He looks like me, she admitted with a sigh. And you, too. So Im a mix of two soldiersAndrew and Sam. No wonder Im so stubborn.
I chuckled. Guess the genes wont lie.
She managed a faint smile. Youre right, love. Im grateful you found that diary. Truth can be bitter, but its better than living in ignorance.
What will you do? I asked. Search for relatives?
Im not sure, she said, tracing the edge of Sams picture with her fingertip. Maybe, but first we need to sort the flat, the belongings. Life goes on, secrets or not.
Could we postpone the sale? I suggested cautiously. Give us another month to finish sorting and maybe find an address or clue.
She nodded. Ill call the estate agent and put it on hold. Seventy years of this secret can wait a little longer.
We sat on Eleanors old armchair, surrounded by the warmth of her keptalive things, each lost in our own thoughts. I marveled at how one decision, one hidden diary, could reshape generations. My mother contemplated what it meant to be a daughter, how love outlasts blood, and how truth sometimes arrives too late.
She finally said, Im not angry with Mum. She did what she thought was right. And Dad hell always be my dad, no matter what biology says.
I get it, I replied. Family is more than DNA.
She carefully closed the diary, slipped it back into the box, but kept Sams photograph with her. I think Ill keep this, she said. A part of my story, even if I only just learned about it.
I hugged her, feeling a new closeness forged by shared secrets. Life would carry on, with fresh knowledge and fresh questions, but the core remained unchanged: the love that bound us across decades and hidden truths. Eleanor took her secret to the grave, but her diary became a bridge between past and present, a reminder that every family holds a universe of feelings, choices, and fates.
