Mom, I cant just toss all of her things! Emily raised her voice, clutching the phone. Theyre old, but theyre Grandmas memories.
Emily, dont shout, her mothers tired tone crackled through the line. Im not saying dump everything. You have no idea how much junk is in thereold rags, newspaper clippings, boxes Grandma never threw anything away.
Exactly, Emily retorted stubbornly. Unlike us, always chasing the new, she cherished what she owned.
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 papers.
Emily hung up and looked around the cramped onebedroom flat on the edge of Brixton. The room seemed smaller with every inch filled with belongings. Grandma Eleanor had passed peacefully in her sleep, and barely a week after the funeral, her daughter Laura decided to sell the flat. Why keep an empty flat in another part of town? Money is more useful, she explained, handing the cleanup job over to Emily.
Youre on holiday, Im at work, Laura said. Emily didnt mention that her break was meant for a seaside getaway, not for sifting through old wardrobes. After all, Eleanor meant more to her than any of Lauras own children.
Emily started in the kitchen, pulling out dishes and setting aside a few keepsakes: a vintage tea kettle, a handpainted sugar bowl, and a set of pearlhandled teaspoons. The rest she boxed for charity.
By evening her back ached. She brewed tea in Eleanors kettle and settled on the sofa, leafing through photographs shed found in the pantry. There was young Eleanor, braid looping around her head, a spittingimage of Emily. A teenage Laura in a scout scarf, and a tiny baby cradled by a proud grandmother.
Strangely, there were almost no pictures of Grandpa Victor. Hed died before Emily was born, and the family spoke of him sparingly. He was a good man, but life didnt go his way, Laura had said once when Emily pressed for details.
The next day Emily tackled the bedroom. A mountain of clothingneatly folded nightgowns, woollen sweaters, scraps of fabricmade her sigh. Eleanor had loved to sew, and everything, though old, was impeccably clean and ironed.
She methodically examined each shelf and drawer. In the back corner of the wardrobe, behind a stack of sheets, she found a shoebox tied with twine. She untied it carefully.
Inside lay letters, a few notebooks, and a worn diary bound in brown leather. She pulled out a faded envelope stamped in the 1950s and read aloud, Dear Ellie, writing from the road. Ill be back tomorrow The tidy, masculine handwriting signed off, Yours, Andrew. Grandpa Victors name was Victor, so who was Andrew?
She set the letter aside and opened the diary. The first page bore Eleanor Whitmores name and the date 12 April 1954.
Night fell as she became absorbed in the entries. Young Eleanor wrote about university life, friends, and her first loveAndrew, the man from the letter. They met at a dance, fell in love, and made plans. Then he was called up for National Service.
Emily turned the pages, feeling Eleanors life unfold. An entry from August 1956 read, Received a letter from Andrew. He says hell visit soon. I miss him so much! A later one, November that year, said, Andrew left. 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 of love, anxieties, and hopes. Then the tone shifted. A shaky entry from February 1957 announced, Andrew died on duty. No details given. I cant believe it. How do I go on?
Emily closed the diary, a lump forming in her throat. Her grandmothers first love had ended in tragedyno wonder she kept it hidden.
The following day she learned that after Andrews death Eleanor fell into a deep depression. Victor, a fellow soldier, came to console her, eventually becoming her husband. 10 September 1957. Victor proposed. I dont love him like I loved Andrew, but hes steady. Mum says I should settle, that Im no longer a girl. At twentythree I should have a family. Yet I cant let go of Andrew
Their wedding was modest. Eleanor wrote that she tried to be a good wife, but Andrews memory lingered. Victor seemed to sense it but never mentioned it.
Then an entry stopped Emilys breath: 20 June 1958. Im three months pregnant, but the child isnt Victors. Before Victor left on a posting, I met Sama cousin of Andrews. Wed known each other before Andrew died. He looked just like Andrew The meeting felt like an apparition. One night, a frenzy I now regret. Now I carry a secret. Victor thinks the baby is his; hes overjoyed. I cant tell him the truth; it would destroy him. Yet living a lie is beyond me. God, what should I do?
Emily slammed the diary shut. So her mother Laura wasnt Victors daughter after all? Who was the real grandfatherSam, the cousin of the dead Andrew?
She kept reading. Eleanor never confessed the truth to Victor. I decided to keep the secretfor Victor, for the child. No one will ever know. When her own daughterEmilys motherwas born, Eleanor wrote she couldnt look at her: Tess looks just like Andrewsame eyes, same face shape. If Sam saw her picture, hed realise. Sam had moved to Manchester, and they never met again. Better this way. Less temptation to break the family.
Entries grew sparse, ending in 1965: Today Tess turned seven. Victor loves her dearly. Theyre building a birdhouse together. Looking at them I see that blood isnt everything. Victor is her real fatherloving, caring. Let the secret stay hidden. Closing the diary forever. Farewell, past life.
Emily set the diary aside, her mind a whirl of questions. Had Laura ever known? She always spoke lovingly of her father Victor. If Sam was the biological grandfather, was he still alive? Did they have other relatives?
She returned to the shoebox and found a faded photograph of a young soldier in a cap, smiling. The back read, Andrew, 1955. Beside it was another, labeled Sam, 1958, a man with softer features and lighter hair.
Emily compared the faces to her own reflection in the wardrobe mirror. The resemblance was undeniableeyes and jawline matched. No wonder Laura used to say, Youre not like your father, neither in looks nor temperament. Now she understood the lineage: the blood of two soldiers, Andrew and Sam, ran through her.
She faced a choice: tell Laura the truth or keep it hidden. As she pondered, the front door slammed.
Emily! Are you in there? Lauras voice pulled her back.
Yes, in the bedroom! Emily shouted, scrambling to repack the diary and photos.
Laura stepped in, eyes scanning the scattered items. Hows it going? I thought Id drop by after work to help.
Fine, Emily said, forcing a smile. Just going through things slowly.
Lauras gaze landed on a box of letters. Whats that?
Oh, just Grandmas letters, diaries. I havent read everything yet.
Diaries? Laura raised an eyebrow. I didnt know Grandma kept one.
She moved closer, and Emily realized the secret was out.
Mom, Emily began gently, did you ever wonder why Grandma never talked about her younger years?
No, why? Laura sat on the edge of the bed. She didnt like to dwell on the past. Everyones different.
Did you know she had a fiancé before Victor? A man named Andrew who died in the army?
Something like that, heard it once, Laura replied uncertainly. Is it in the diary?
Yes, and more, Emily inhaled deeply. Are you sure you want to know?
Lauras brow furrowed. Just tell me.
Emily hesitated. The diary says Victor wasnt your biological father.
Silence hung heavy, broken only by the ticking of the old wall clock.
What nonsense is that? Laura snapped, reaching for the diary.
Emily handed it over. Laura put on her glasses and read. Her expression shifted from surprise to shock, then to anger.
It cant be, she whispered. Dad always said I was his exact copy
Mom, Emily said softly, placing a hand on her arm, whats written doesnt change the love Victor gave you. Biology is just biology.
Why didnt she tell us? Lauras voice trembled with hurt. I had a right to know!
She was scared of breaking the family, Emily replied quietly. And Sam, the man youre linked to, never knew anything either, at least thats what the diary says.
Laura flipped through the pages, searching for reassurance. Im sixty now. Ive lived my whole life in the dark. What do I do with this? Look for Sam? Hed be over eighty if hes still alive.
Its up to you, Emily said, sitting beside her. Maybe you have halfsiblings you never met. Our family could be bigger than we thought.
Laura shook her head. I need time to process. I cant imagine how to feel about Mom now. So many lies
It wasnt a lie, just an omission, for your happiness, Emily replied.
Easy for you to say! Laura snapped, frustration bubbling. Your world just got turned upside down!
Emily stayed quiet. She could feel Lauras turmoil far deeper than her own.
After a while Lauras face softened. I always wondered why I didnt look like Victor. He was calm and measured; Im restless, always moving. Mom said I resembled her father, but I never saw his picture. Now I see why.
She held up Sams photo, studying his features. He does look like meespecially the eyes.
Looks like I have the blood of two soldiersAndrew and Sam, Emily smiled. No wonder Im so stubborn.
Laura managed a faint grin. You cant cheat genetics. But you know what, daughter? Im grateful you found that diary. Truth can be bitter, but its better than living in ignorance.
What will you do? Emily asked. Search for relatives?
Im not sure, Laura said, tracing the photograph with her finger. Maybe. First, we have to sort the flat and the belongings. Life goes on, even with these revelations.
Could we delay the sale? Emily suggested cautiously. Give us a month to finish sorting, maybe uncover more clues.
Fine, Laura agreed, surprisingly light. Ill call the estate agent and put the deal on hold. Seventy years of secrecy can wait a little longer.
They sat on the edge of Eleanors old bed, surrounded by the remnants of a life once lived, each lost in thought. Emily contemplated how a single decision could reshape generations. Laura reflected on what it meant to be a daughter, on a love that transcended blood, and on a truth that arrived far too late.
Mom, Laura finally said, Im not angry at Grandma. She did what she thought was right. And Victor he will always be my true father, no matter what biology says.
Emily nodded. Family isnt just DNA.
Laura gently closed the diary, placing it back in the box, but kept Sams photograph with her. Ill hold onto this, she said. Its part of my story, even if I only just learned it.
Emily embraced her mother, feeling a new closeness forged by shared secrets and mutual discovery.
Life moved forward, filled with fresh knowledge and fresh questions. Yet the core remained unchanged: the love that bound them across decades and hidden truths. Grandma Eleanor had taken her secret to the grave, but she left behind a diarya bridge between past and present, proof that every family history carries a universe of feelings, choices, and destinies. The lesson emerged clear: honesty may wound, but it also frees the heart, allowing love to stand on its own, untouched by the shadows of unspoken past.
