Natalie, I cant just dump all her things! Susan raises her voice, clutching the phone. It may be old junk, but its my mothers memory!
Dont shout, Nat, her mothers voice sounds weary and irritated. Im not saying you have to throw everything away, but you have no idea how much clutter there isclothes from the 70s, newspaper cutouts, random boxes Grandmother never threw anything out.
Exactly, she kept everything, Natalie snaps. Unlike us, always chasing the new, she valued what she had.
Valued, Susan sighs. Fine, sort however you like. But the flat has to be cleared by the end of the week. New owners are already signing the papers.
Natalie hangs up and looks around with a sigh. The tiny onebedroom flat on the edge of Manchester feels even smaller under the weight of the belongings that fill every inch. Grandmother Eleanor passed away peacefully in her sleep, and barely a week after the funeral Susan decides to sell the flat. Why keep an empty house far out of town? We need the money, she explains, handing the task of sorting eight decades of lifes items to Natalie.
Youre on holiday and Im working, Susan adds. Natalie doesnt mention that her break was meant for a seaside trip, not for sifting through old cupboards. After all, Eleanor meant more to her than Susan did to herself.
Natalie starts in the kitchen, pulling out dishes and setting aside a few keepsakes: a vintage teapot, a handpainted sugar bowl, and a set of tea spoons with motherofpearl handles. The rest goes into boxes bound for charity.
By evening her back aches from the strain. She brews tea in Eleanors old pot and collapses on the sofa, leafing through faded photographs she found in the pantry. Theres a young Eleanor with a long braid wrapped around her headjust like Natalies. Theres Susan as a schoolgirl in a neat blazer. And theres a tiny infant cradled in Eleanors arms.
Strangely, there are almost no pictures of the grandfather. He died before Natalie was born, and the family seldom spoke of him. He was a good man, but life didnt cooperate, Susan once said when Natalie asked.
On the second day Natalie tackles the bedroom. A mountain of clothing saps her spirit: neatly folded nightgowns, woollen sweaters, bolts of fabricEleanor loved to sew. Most of the garments are old but impeccably clean and pressed.
She methodically checks each shelf and drawer. In the back corner of the wardrobe, behind a stack of sheets, she finds a shoe box tied with twine. She unties it carefully.
Inside are letters, a few notebooks, and a battered diary bound in what looks like old school leather. She pulls out a yellowed envelope stamped in the 1950s.
Dear Ellie! Writing from the road. Ill be in the area tomorrow the tidy, masculine handwriting reads, signed Andrew. The grandfathers name was Victor. Who is Andrew?
Natalie sets the letter aside and opens the diary. The first page, in Eleanors looping script, reads: Diary of Eleanor Bennett. Began 12 April 1954.
Night falls as she becomes absorbed in the entries. Young Eleanor writes about university life, friends, and a first loveAndrew, the man from the letter. They meet at a dance, fall in love, and make plans. Then hes called up for national service.
Natalie turns the pages, living Eleanors world. An August 1956 entry says, Got a letter from Andrew. He says hell be home soon. I miss him so much! A November entry follows, Andrew left. Those two weeks were the happiest of my life. Now I wait a year for his discharge. Weve decided to marry as soon as he returns. I keep his photo under my pillow.
The diary bursts with love notes, anxieties, hopes. Then the tone shifts. A February 1957 entry, written shakily, states, Ive just received news. Andrew died on duty. No details. I cant believe it. I dont want to believe it. How do I go on?
Natalie closes the diary, a lump forming in her throat. Poor Eleanorfirst love and such a tragedy. No wonder she never spoke of it.
The next day she learns that Eleanor fell into a deep depression after Andrews death. Then Victor, a comrade of the fallen soldier, shows up to tell her about Andrews final days. He is kind and supportive, and a friendship blossoms.
10 September 1957. Victor proposed to me. I dont love him like I loved Andrew, but hes good and reliable. Mum says I need to settle down, Im twentythree, time for a family. Yet I cant let go of Andrew Eleanor writes.
The wedding is modest. Eleanor tries to be a good wife, but often thinks of Andrew. Victor seems to sense this, though he never says a word.
A later entry stops Natalies breath: 20 June 1958. Im three months pregnant. The baby isnt Victors. Before Victors deployment I met SamAndrews cousin. Wed known each other when Andrew was alive. He looks just like him Same eyes, same gestures. We met by chance in a park, talked about Andrew, and it felt like a vision. One night of madness I now regret. Victor believes the child is his, hes overjoyed. I cant tell him the truth. It would destroy him. Living a lie is beyond me. Lord, what should I do?
Natalie slams the diary shut. Her mind races. So her mother isnt Victors daughter? Who is her real grandfatherthis Sam, Andrews cousin?
Stunned, she reads on. Eleanor never told Victor the truth. I decided to keep the secretfor Victor, for the child. No one will ever know. When the granddaughterNatalies motherwas born, Eleanor wrote that she could not look her in the eye: Tanya looks just like Andrewsame eyes, same face shape. Sam would recognize her if he saw the photo, but hes moved to London and we never meet again. Better this way; less temptation to break the family.
Entries grow sparse, then stop. The last one, dated 1965, says, Tanya is seven. Victor cherishes her. They build a birdhouse together for the cottage. Looking at them, I realize blood isnt everything. Victor is her true fatherloving, caring. The secret stays hidden. I close this diary forever. Goodbye, past life.
Natalie puts the diary down, a storm of questions swirling. Did her mother ever know? She always spoke lovingly of her father, Victor. If Sam is the biological grandfather, is he still alive? Are there halfsiblings she never met?
She returns to the box and finds, at the bottom, a faded photograph of a young soldier in a cap, smiling at the camera. The back reads, Andrew, 1955. Beside it is another labeled Sam, 1958, a man with softer features and lighter hair.
Natalie compares the faces to her own reflection in the wardrobe mirror. The similarity is clearespecially the eyes and jawline. No wonder her mother always wondered, Why dont I look like Dad? Its the blood of Andrew and Sam that runs through her.
She wonders whether to tell her mother. Does she have the right to know that the man shes always called father isnt her biological dad?
She doesnt notice the front door closing behind her.
Nat! Are you in there? her mothers voice pulls her back.
Yes, in the bedroom! she shouts, hurriedly shoving the diary and photos back into the box.
Susan steps in, eyes the mess, and spots the box of letters.
Whats that? she asks.
Just Grandmas letters and diaries. I havent gone through them all yet, Natalie replies, blushing.
Diaries? Susan raises an eyebrow, surprised. I didnt know Mum kept a diary.
She steps closer, and Natalie realizes the secret cant stay hidden.
Mum, Natalie begins gently, did you ever wonder why Grandma never talked about her younger years?
No, why? Susan sits on the edge of the bed. She just didnt like to dwell on the past. Whats there to say?
Did you know she had a fiancé before Victor? A man named Andrew who died in the army?
Something like that, Ive heard in passing, Susan says uncertainly. Is it written in the diary?
Yes, and more, Natalie takes a deep breath. Mum, are you sure you want to hear?
Susans eyebrows knit. Just tell me.
Natalie hesitates. The diary says Victor isnt your biological father.
Silence hangs, thick enough to hear the ticking of the old wall clock.
What rubbish is that? Susan finally snaps. Give me that diary.
Natalie hands her the open notebook. Susan puts on her glasses and reads. Her expression shiftsfrom surprise to shock, then to anger.
This cant be true, she whispers. Dad always said I was his spitting image
Mum, Natalie says softly, placing a hand on her arm, whats written doesnt change the love Victor gave you. He raised you, he cared for you. Biology is just biology.
Why didnt she tell us? Susans voice cracks with hurt. I had a right to know!
She was scared of breaking the family, Natalie replies quietly. And your real father, Sam, never knew either. At least thats what the diary says.
Susan flips through the pages, hoping for denial.
Im sixty now, she says hoarsely. Ive lived my whole life without this truth. Should I look for Sam? Hed be over eighty by now.
Its your choice, Natalie says, sitting beside her. But maybe you have halfsiblings you never met. Our family could be bigger than we thought.
Susan shakes her head. I need to think about this. Its a lot to take in. How do I feel about Mum now? All these years of lies
Its not a lie, just an omission, Natalie says. She did it for your happiness.
Its easy for you to say! Susan snaps. Your world has just been turned upside down!
Natalie stays quiet, realizing her own shock cant compare to her mothers.
After a while, Susans features soften. I always wondered why I didnt look like Dad. He was calm and steady, while Im restless and impatient. Mum said I resembled her father, but I never saw a picture of him
She holds up the photo of Sam, studies his face. He does look like me, especially the eyes.
So I carry the blood of two soldiersAndrew and Sam, Natalie jokes, a faint smile appearing. No wonder Im so stubborn.
Susan manages a weak grin. You cant outrun your genes. But thank you for finding the diary. Bitter truth is better than living in ignorance.
What will you do? Natalie asks. Search for relatives?
Im not sure, Susan runs a finger over the photograph. Maybe. But first we need to sort out the flat and the remaining items. Life goes on, even with these revelations.
Could we postpone the sale? Natalie suggests cautiously. Give us another month to finish cataloguing everything, maybe find an address or a clue.
Alright, Susan agrees surprisingly easily. Ill call the estate agent and put the transaction on hold. Youre right, theres no rush. Seventy years of secrets can wait a bit longer.
They sit on Eleanors old bed, surrounded by the remnants of a life once lived, each lost in her own thoughts. Natalie marvels at how a single decision can reshape generations. Susan reflects on what it means to be a daughter, on love that surpasses blood, and on truth that sometimes arrives too late.
Honestly, Susan finally says, Im not angry at Mum. She did what she thought was right. And Dad he will always be my dad, no matter what biology says.
I get it, Natalie nods. Family isnt just DNA.
Susan gently closes the diary and slides it back into the box, but keeps Sams photograph with her.
Ill hold onto this, she says. Its part of my story, even if I only just learned it.
Natalie embraces her mother, feeling a new closeness forged by shared secret and mutual discovery.
Life moves forward, now with fresh knowledge and fresh questions. Yet the core stays the samelove that binds them across decades and hidden histories. Eleanor left her secret in a diary, a bridge between past and present, a reminder that every family story holds a universe of feelings, choices, and destinies.
