Mom, I cant just throw away all her stuff! Natalie raises her voice, phone pressed to her ear. Its old, but its my grandmothers memory!
Emily, dont shout, her mothers voice sounds tired and irritable. Im not saying you have to toss everything, but you have no idea how much junk is in thereold rags, newspaper clippings, random boxes Grandma never threw anything away.
Exactly, Natalie retorts stubbornly. Unlike us, always chasing the latest, she valued everything.
Valued, her mother sighs. Fine, sort it how you like. Just clear the flat by the end of the week; the new owners are signing the paperwork.
Natalie hangs up and looks around with a sigh. The tiny onebedroom flat on the outskirts of Birmingham feels even smaller under the weight of every item that fills every inch. Grandmother Ethel passed quietly in her sleep, and her mother, barely finished with the funeral, decides to sell the flat. Why keep an empty flat on the other side of town? We need the money, she explains, handing the task to Natalie.
Youre on holiday, Im working, her mother adds. Natalie doesnt mention that she booked the holiday to go to the seaside, not to rummage through old wardrobes. After all, Ethel meant more to her than her own mother does.
Natalie starts 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 packs into boxes for charity.
By evening her back aches from the effort. She brews tea in Ethels kettle and settles on the sofa, leafing through old photographs she finds in the pantry. Theres young Ethel with a long braid wrapped around her headjust like Natalies. Theres her mother as a schoolgirl in a Brownie uniform. And theres a tiny bundle of newborn arms cradled by a proud grandmother.
Strangely, there are hardly any pictures of her grandfather. He died before Natalie was born, and the family rarely spoke of him. He was a good man, but life didnt go his way, her mother once said when Natalie pressed for details.
On the second day she moves to the bedroom. A mountain of clothing dampens her spirits: neatly folded nightgowns, woolen jumpers, scraps of fabricEthel loved to sew. Almost everything is old but immaculate, pressed and spotless.
Natalie methodically checks each shelf and drawer. In the back corner of the wardrobe, behind a stack of sheets, she discovers a shoe box tied with twine. She unties it carefully.
Inside are letters, several notebooks, and a worn diary bound in brown leather. She pulls out a faded envelope stamped in the 1950s.
Dear Ethel, writing from the road. Ill arrive tomorrow the neat, masculine handwriting reads. It ends with Yours, Andrew. The grandfathers name was Victor, so who is Andrew?
She puts the letter aside and opens the diary. The first page, in Ethels familiar script, reads: Ethel Harriss Diary. Began 12 April 1954.
Night falls before she can read further. In the early entries young Ethel writes about life at university, friends, and her first loveAndrew from the letter. They meet at a dance, fall in love, make plans, then he is called up for national service.
She flips through the pages, living Ethels life. An August 1956 entry says: Received a letter from Andrew. He says hell be home soon. I miss him so much! A November entry notes: Andrew left. These two weeks are the happiest of my life. Now I must wait a year for his discharge. Weve decided to marry as soon as he returns. Meanwhile, I keep his picture under my pillow.
The pages are filled with love notes, worries, hopes. Then the tone shifts. A February 1957 entry, shaky hand, reads: Today I received news. Andrew died on duty. No details are given. I cant believe it. I dont want to believe. How do I live now?
Natalie closes the diary, a lump forming in her throat. Poor Ethelfirst love and such tragedy. No wonder she never spoke of it.
The next day she learns that after Andrews death Ethel fell into a deep depression. Then Victor, a fellow soldier of Andrews, shows up to tell her about his final days. He is kind and supportive, and a friendship grows.
10 September 1957. Victor proposed to me. I dont love him like I loved Andrew, but hes good and dependable. Mum says I need to settle down; Im twentythree, time for a family. Yet I cant let go of Andrew
The wedding is modest. Ethel writes she tries to be a good wife but often thinks of Andrew. Victor seems to suspect something but never says it aloud.
Later, a chilling entry catches 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 The same eyes, the same gestures. We met by chance in the park, talked about Andrew, and then It felt like a fever dream. One night, a wild night I now regret. Now Im carrying a child. Victor believes its his, hes thrilled I cant tell him the truth. It would kill him. Living a lie is more than I can bear. Lord, what should I do?
Natalie slams the diary shut. The room swirls. So her mother isnt Victors daughter? Who is the real grandfatherSam, the cousin of the dead Andrew?
Stunned, she keeps reading. Ethel never told Victor the truth. I chose to keep the secretfor Victor, for the child. No one will ever know.
When her own daughterNatalies motherwas born, Ethel writes she cant look her in the eye: Emily looks just like Andrewsame eyes, same face shape. Sam, seeing her photo, would have guessed. Hes now in Manchester, we never see each other again Better this way. Less temptation to break the family.
Entries become sparser, ending in 1965: Today Emily turned seven. Victor loves her dearly. Theyre building a birdhouse for the cottage together. I realize blood isnt everything. Victor is her real dadloving, caring. The secret stays a secret. I close this diary forever. Farewell, past life.
Natalie puts the diary down. A million questions race through her mind. Did her mother ever know? She always spoke fondly of her father, Victor. So Sam must be her biological grandfather? Is he still alive? Does she have halfsiblings she never met?
She returns to the box and finds at the bottom a faded photograph: a young soldier in a cap smiling at the camera. The back reads Andrew, 1955. Beside it another picture is labelled Sam, 1958. The man looks remarkably like the first, only softer features and lighter hair.
She compares the photos to her own reflection in the wardrobe mirror. The resemblance is unmistakableeyes and jawline match. No wonder her mother always wondered, Why dont I look like Dad? Its the blood of Andrew and Sam that runs through her, explaining her stubbornness.
Now she must decide: tell her mother or keep it hidden? Does she have the right to know that the man shes always called father isnt her biological one?
She doesnt notice the front door closing behind her.
Emily! Are you in there? her mothers voice pulls her back.
Yes, in the bedroom! she shouts, hurriedly stuffing the diary and photos back into the box.
Her mother peeks in.
Hows it going? I stopped by after work to help.
Fine, Natalie replies, forcing a smile. Im making progress, slowly.
Her mother scans the strewn items and spots the box of letters.
Whats that?
Just grandmas letters, diaries. I havent gone through everything yet.
Diaries? her mother raises an eyebrow. I didnt know she kept one.
She steps closer, and Natalie realizes the find wont stay secret.
Mom, she begins gently, did you ever wonder why grandma never talked about her youth?
No, why would I? her mother sits on the edge of the bed. She didnt like talking about the past. Whats there to it?
Did you know she had a fiancé before Victor? A man named Andrew who died in the army?
Sounds familiar, heard it in passing, her mother replies hesitantly. Is it written in the diary?
Yes, and more, Natalie takes a deep breath. Are you sure you want to know?
Her mothers brow furrows. Tell me straight.
Natalie hesitates. The diary says Victor isnt your biological father.
A heavy silence fills the room, broken only by the ticking of the old wall clock.
What rubbish is that? her mother finally says, reaching for the diary.
Natalie hands it over. Her mother puts on her glasses and reads. Her expression shiftsfrom surprise to shock, then anger.
No way, she whispers, finishing the page. Dad he always said I was his spitting image
Mom, Natalie says softly, placing a hand on hers, what the diary says doesnt change anything. Victor raised you, loved you, was a real father. Biology is just biology.
Why didnt she tell me? her mothers voice cracks. I had a right to know!
She was scared of losing the family, Natalie replies quietly. And your true father, Sam, never knew either. At least thats what the diary says.
Her mother flips through the pages, hoping for a contradiction.
Im sixty now, she says lowly. Ive lived my whole life unaware of this. What now? Should I look for Sam? Hed be eightyplus if hes still alive.
Its your choice, Natalie says, sitting beside her. Maybe you have halfsiblings you never met. Our family could be bigger than we thought.
Her mother shakes her head. I need time to process. I cant imagine how to feel about you, about Mom, after all these lies
Its not a lie, just a silence, kept for our happiness, Natalie replies.
Its easy for you to say! her mother snaps. Your world has just turned upside down!
Natalie stays quiet. The impact on her is nothing compared to her mothers. Her mother keeps turning the diarys pages, looking at the photos, and her face slowly softens.
You know, she says after a pause, I always wondered why I didnt look like Dad. He was calm and steady; Im restless and impatient. Mum said I resembled her father, but I never saw a picture of him Now I see why.
She studies Sams photograph. He looks like me, especially the eyes.
So I carry the blood of two soldiersAndrew and Sam, Natalie smiles. No wonder Im so stubborn.
Her mother manages a weak grin. You cant outwit genetics. But, darling, Im grateful you found that diary. Truth can be bitter, but its better than living in ignorance.
What will you do? Natalie asks. Search for relatives?
I dont know, her mother runs a finger over the photo. Maybe. But first we need to finish sorting the flat, the boxes. Life goes on, even with these revelations.
Maybe we should postpone the sale? Natalie suggests cautiously. Give us another month. We still have letters to read, maybe clues to an address.
Alright, her mother agrees surprisingly quickly. Ill call the estate agent and hold off. Youre right; theres no rush. Seventy years of secrecy can wait a little longer.
They sit on Ethels old bed, surrounded by the remnants of her life, each lost in thought. Natalie reflects on how a single decision can reshape generations. Her mother thinks about what it means to be a daughter, about a love that outlives blood, and about truth that arrives too late.
I’m not angry at Mum, her mother finally says. She did what she thought was right. And Dad he will always be my real father, no matter what biology says.
I get it, Natalie nods. Family isnt just DNA.
Her mother gently closes the diary, places it back in the box, but keeps Sams photograph with her.
Ill keep this, she says. A piece of my history, even if I only just learned it.
Natalie hugs her mother, feeling a new closeness forged by shared secret and mutual discovery.
Life moves forward, with fresh knowledge and fresh questions. Yet the core remains unchangedlove that binds their family across decades and hidden stories. Ethel may have taken her secret to the grave, but she left a diary, a bridge between past and present, proof that every family history hides a whole universe of feelings, choices, and destinies.
