Mom, I cant just throw away all of Grandmas things! Natalie Shaw shouted, clutching her phone. It may be junk, but its her memory!
Nat, lower your voice, her mothers tired voice replied from the other end of the line. Im not saying you should toss everything, but you have no idea how much rubbish is in thereold rags, newspaper clippings, boxes Grandma never threw anything away.
Exactly, Natalie retorted stubbornly. Unlike us, always chasing the new, 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 hung up and looked around the cramped onebedroom flat on the outskirts of Manchester. The space seemed even smaller with every piece of furniture occupying every inch. Her grandmother Ellen had died quietly in her sleep, and barely a week after the funeral her mother decided to sell the flat. Why keep an empty flat on the far side of town? Money is more useful, she had said, handing the task of sifting through eighty years of belongings to Natalie.
Youre on holiday, Im working, her mother added. Natalie didnt mention that shed taken the break to go to the seaside, not to rummage through old wardrobes. After all, Ellen meant more to her than to her own mother.
She started in the kitchen, pulling out dishes and setting aside a few treasured items: an antique tea kettle, a painted sugar bowl and a set of pearlhandled teaspoons. The rest she boxed for charity.
By evening her back ached. Natalie brewed tea in Ellens kettle and settled on the sofa, leafing through old photographs shed found in a sideboard. There was Ellen as a young woman with a long braid, just like Natalies. A picture of her mother as a schoolgirl in a pioneer scarf. And a tiny infant cradled in Ellens armsNatalie herself.
Strangely, there were hardly any photos of her grandfather Victor. He had died before Natalie was born, and the family spoke of him only reluctantly. He was a good man, but life didnt go his way, her mother had once said when Natalie pressed for details.
On the second day she tackled the bedroom. A mountain of clothesfolded nightgowns, woolen jumpers, spare fabricmade her sigh. Ellen had loved to sew, and everything was clean and ironed despite its age.
Methodically she examined each shelf and drawer. In the back corner of the wardrobe, behind a stack of sheets, she found a corrugated shoebox tied with twine. She untied it carefully.
Inside lay letters, several notebooks and a battered diary bound in brown leather. She randomly pulled out a faded envelope stamped in the 1950s.
Dear Ellie! Writing from the road. Ill be at the base tomorrow the neat, masculine handwriting read. The signature at the bottom: Yours, Andrew. The grandfathers name was Victor, so who was Andrew?
She set the letter aside and opened the diary. The first page, in Ellens familiar script, read: Ellen Shaws Diary. Began 12 April 1954.
Night fell before she could read further. In the early entries, a young Ellen wrote about university life, friends, and a first lovethis Andrew from the letter. They met at a dance, fell in love, made plans, then he was called up for national service.
Pages turned, and Ellens August 1956 entry said: Received a letter from Andrew. He says hell be home soon. How Ive missed him! By November that year, Ellen wrote: Andrew left. Those two weeks were the happiest of my life. Now I must wait a year for his discharge. Weve decided to marry as soon as he returns. I keep his photograph under my pillow.
The diary was full of love notes, anxieties and hopes. Then the tone shifted. A shaky February 1957 entry read: Heard the news today. Andrew died on duty. No details. I cant believe it. How do I live now?
Natalie closed the diary, a lump forming in her throat. Her grandmothers first love had ended in tragedy, explaining why Ellen never spoke of it.
The next day she learned that after Andrews death Ellen fell into a deep depression. Then Victor, a fellow soldier of Andrews, came to comfort her. He was kind and dependable, and a friendship blossomed.
10 September 1957. Victor proposed. I dont love him like I loved Andrew, but hes good, reliable. Mother says I must settle down; Im twentythree, time for a family. Yet I cant let go of Andrew
The wedding was modest. Ellen wrote that she tried to be a good wife, but often thought of Andrew. Victor seemed to understand without saying a word.
Then came a shocking entry: 20 June 1958. Im three months pregnant, but the child isnt Victors. Before Victor left on deployment I met SamAndrews cousin. Wed known each other when Andrew was alive. He looks just like him The night we met felt like a dream. One night of madness I now regret, but now Im expecting a child. Victor believes its his, hes overjoyed I cant tell him the truth. It would kill him. Living a lie is beyond my strength. Lord, what should I do?
Natalies breath caught. Her mother wasnt Victors daughter after all? Who was the real grandfatherSam, the cousin of the fallen Andrew?
She kept reading. Ellen never told Victor the truth. I decided to keep the secret for Victors sake, for the child. No one will ever know. When her daughterNatalies motherwas born, Ellen wrote that she couldnt look at her: Tanya looks just like Andrewsame eyes, same face shape. If Sam saw her picture hed recognise her. Hes in Liverpool now, we never see each other again. Better this way, less temptation to ruin the family.
Entries grew scarce and stopped in 1965: Today Tanya turned seven. Victor loves her dearly. Theyre building a birdhouse together. I realise blood isnt everything. Victor is her real father, loving and caring. The secret will remain a secret. Closing the diary forever. Goodbye, past life.
Natalie set the diary down, a storm of questions raging in her mind. Did her mother ever know? She had always spoken lovingly of her father, Victor. If Sam was the biological grandfather, did he still live? Were there halfsiblings she never met?
She returned to the shoebox. At the bottom lay a faded photograph of a young soldier in a cap, smiling at the camera. The reverse read: Andrew, 1955. Beside it was another picture labeled Sam, 1958. The man looked almost identical, only softerfeatured and lighterhaired.
Natalie compared the faces to her own reflection in the wardrobe mirror. The resemblance was undeniableespecially the eyes and jawline. No wonder her mother always wondered, Why dont I look like Dad? The answer lay in the hidden lineage of two soldiersAndrew and Samexplaining Natalies stubbornness.
Her mothers voice called, snapping her back: Nat! Are you in there?
Yes, in the bedroom! Natalie shouted, hurriedly stuffing the diary and photos back into the box.
Her mother stepped in, eyes scanning the scattered belongings. Whats that? she asked, pointing at the box of letters.
Just Grandmas letters and diaries. I havent looked through everything yet, Natalie answered, cheeks flushing.
Diaries? her mother repeated, surprised. I didnt know Mom kept a diary.
She moved closer, and Natalie realized she couldnt hide the find any longer.
Mom, Natalie began gently, did you ever wonder why Grandma never talked about her youth?
No, why? her mother replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. She just didnt like to dwell on the past. Whats the big deal?
Did you know she had another fiancé before Victor? A man named Andrew who died in the army? Natalie asked.
The name rings a faint bell, her mother admitted. Its in the diary?
Yes, and more, Natalie said, taking a deep breath. Do you want to hear?
Her mother frowned. Tell me straight.
Natalie hesitated, then opened the diary to the page where Ellen wrote that Victor wasnt her biological father. A heavy silence fell, broken only by the ticking of an old wall clock.
What nonsense is that? her mother finally demanded, grabbing the diary. She slipped on her glasses and began to read. Shock turned to disbelief, then to anger.
It cant be Dad he always said I was his spitting image, she whispered, tears welling.
Mom, Natalie placed a hand on her arm, whats written doesnt change the love Victor gave you. He raised you, cared for you, and thats what matters. Biology is just biology.
Why didnt she tell us? her mothers voice cracked. I had a right to know!
She was afraid the secret would break the family, Natalie replied softly. And Sam, the real grandfather, never knew either. The truth was a burden she carried alone.
Her mother turned the pages, as if hoping for a contradiction. Im sixty now. Ive lived my whole life without this truth. What do I do with it? Should I look for Sam? Hed be over eighty now.
Its up to you, Natalie said, sitting beside her. Maybe you have halfsiblings you never met. Our family might be bigger than we thought.
Her mother shook her head. I dont know, Nat. I need to process this. All these years of lies
It wasnt a lie, just an omission for our happiness, Natalie replied.
Easy for you to say! her mother snapped. Your world hasnt been turned upside down.
Natalie stayed quiet, feeling the weight of her mothers upheaval. Eventually her mothers expression softened.
I always wondered why I didnt look like Dad. He was calm and steady, while Im restless and impulsive. Mom said I resembled her father, but I never saw his photo Now I see why, she said, holding the photograph of Sam. He looks a lot like me, especially the eyes.
Looks like the blood of two soldiers runs through youAndrew and Sam, Natalie joked, a faint smile appearing. No wonder Im so headstrong.
Her mother returned the smile weakly. You cant cheat genetics, but you know what? Im grateful you found that diary. Truth can be bitter, but its better than living in ignorance.
What will you do? Natalie asked. Search for relatives?
Im not sure, her mother mused, tracing Sams face with a finger. First, we have to sort out the flat and the belongings. Life goes on, even with these revelations.
Maybe we should postpone the sale? Natalie suggested cautiously. Give us a month to finish sorting, maybe find an address or a clue.
Alright, her mother agreed more easily than expected. Ill call the estate agent and hold off. Seventy years of secrets can wait a little longer.
They sat on Ellens old bed, surrounded by the remnants of a life long past, each lost in thought. Natalie reflected on how a single decision, a single diary, could reshape generations. Her mother thought about what it meant to be a daughter, about love that outlives blood, and about truth arriving too late.
Finally her mother said, Im not angry at Ellen. She did what she thought was right. And Victor he will always be my real father, no matter what biology says.
Natalie nodded. Family isnt just DNA.
Her mother carefully closed the diary, slipped it back into the box, but kept Sams photograph with her. Ill keep this, she said. A piece of my history I finally know about.
Natalie embraced her mother, feeling a new closeness forged by shared secrets and mutual discovery.
Life moved forward, filled with fresh knowledge and lingering questions. Yet one thing stayed unchangedthe love that bound them across decades and hidden truths. Ellens diary had become a bridge between past and present, reminding them that while the past may hold hidden scars, the present is built on the choices we make and the compassion we share. In the end, honesty, however painful, is the foundation on which a true family stands.
