Sorting through my late grandmothers belongings, I stumbled upon her diary and the truth about my father emerged.
Mom, I cant just toss everything out! Natalie shouted, clutching the phone. It may be old junk, but its my grannys memories!
Nat, lower your voice, her mothers weary tone crackled through the line. Im not saying burn it all, but theres a mountain of rubbishold rags, newspaper cutouts, boxes She never threw anything away.
Exactly, Natalie retorted stubbornly. Unlike us, always chasing the new, she treasured things.
Her mother sighed. Fine, do as you like. But the flat must be cleared by weeks end; the new owners are already signing papers.
The receiver went silent, and Natalie glanced around the cramped onebedroom flat on the outskirts of Manchester. The space seemed to shrink under the weight of every item that filled every inch. Grandmother Eleanor had slipped away quietly in her sleep, and barely a month after the funeral her daughter decided to sell the flat. Why keep a empty house on the other side of town? Moneys tighter than ever, she had said, delegating the task of unpacking eight decades of life to Natalie.
Youre on holiday and Im working, her mother reminded her. Natalie didnt mention that her break was meant for a seaside retreat, not for sifting through ancient cupboards. In the end, Eleanor meant more to her than her own daughter ever could.
Natalie began in the kitchen, pulling out porcelain and setting aside a few heirlooms: an antique tea kettle, a painted sugar bowl, a set of pearlhandled teaspoons. The rest she packed into boxes destined for charity.
By evening her back ached, and she brewed tea in Eleanors kettle, sinking onto the sofa to stare at old photographs shed found in a sideboard. A young Eleanor, braid looping around her head, mirrored Natalies own hair. A teenage mother in a pupils scarf, a tiny bundle in her grandmothers arms. Oddly, there were almost no pictures of her grandfather; he had died before Natalie was born, and the family spoke of him only in hushed tones. He was a good man, but life didnt favour him, her mother had once said when Natalie asked.
On the second day she tackled the bedroom. A mountain of clothingneatly folded nightgowns, woollen sweaters, scraps of fabricmade her sigh. Eleanor had loved to stitch. Most of the garments were old, yet spotless and ironed.
She methodically examined each shelf and drawer. In the far corner of the wardrobe, behind a stack of sheets, a cardboard shoebox bound with twine waited. Natalie untied it and opened it to find letters, a few notebooks, and a battered schoolbook bound in what looked like corrugated cardboard. She pulled out a faded envelope stamped from the 1950s.
Dear Ellie! Writing from the road. Ill be in town tomorrow the neat, masculine hand read, signed Your Andrew. The grandfathers name was Victor, so who was Andrew?
She set the letter aside and turned to the notebook. The first page bore the title Eleanor Whitbys Diary. Began 12 April 1954. Darkness fell as she read. Young Eleanor wrote about university life, friends, and her first loveAndrew from the letter. They met at a dance, fell in love, made plans, then he was called up for National Service.
Pages fluttered past August 1956: Received a letter from Andrew. Hell visit soon. I miss him so. Then November: Andrew left. These 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 photograph under my pillow.
The entries blossomed with declarations, anxieties, hopesuntil February 1957, when the hand trembled:
Received news today. Andrew died on duty. No details. I cant believe it. I dont want to believe. How do I go on?
Natalie closed the book, a lump forming in her throat. The first love shattered.
The next day she learned that after Andrews death Eleanor fell into a deep depression. Then Victor, a comrade of Andrews, arrived to tell her of his final days. He was kind, supporting the grieving Eleanor, and their friendship grew.
10 September 1957. Victor proposed. I dont love him as I loved Andrew, but hes reliable. Mum says I should settle, Im twentythree, time for a family. Yet I cant let go of Andrew
The marriage was modest. Eleanor wrote she tried to be a good wife but often thought of Andrew. Victor seemed to understand, though he never spoke of it.
Then a chilling entry:
20 June 1958. Im three months pregnant, but the child isnt Victors. Before Victor left on deployment I met SamAndrews cousin. We knew each other from before Andrews death; 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, madness, and now Im carrying a child. Victor believes its his, hes overjoyed. I cant tell him the truth; it would kill him. But living a lie is beyond me. Lord, what should I do?
Natalie slammed the diary shut, the room humming. So her mother wasnt Victors daughter? Who was the real grandfatherSam, the cousin of the fallen Andrew?
She kept reading. Eleanor never told Victor the truth. I decided to keep the secretfor Victor, for the child. No one will ever know.
When her mothers daughterNatalies own motherwas born, Eleanor wrote she could not look her in the eye: Tanya looks just like Andrewsame eyes, same face shape. Sam would recognise her, but he moved to Liverpool and we never saw each other again. Better this way, less temptation to break the family.
Entries grew sparse, ending 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 stays hidden. Closing the diary forever. Goodbye, past life.
Natalie set the notebook aside, a storm of questions swirling. Did her mother ever know? She always spoke lovingly of her father Victor, but could Sam be the biological grandfather? Did any cousins still live?
She returned to the bottom of the box and found a faded photograph of a young soldier in a cap, smiling at the camera. The reverse read Andrew, 1955. Beside it, another picture labelled Sam, 1958. The second man resembled the first, only softer features and lighter hair.
Comparing the faces to her own reflection in the wardrobe mirror, the similarity was undeniableespecially the eyes and jawline. No wonder her mother always wondered, Why dont I look like Dad?
Now the truth settled like a heavy dream: two wartime men ran through her veins. No wonder Im so stubborn, Natalie mused, smiling at the absurdity.
Her mother, after a long stare at the photographs, whispered, I always felt different from Dadcalm, methodicalwhile Im restless and impulsive. Mum said I resembled her father, but I never saw a picture of him.
Looks like the blood of both Andrew and Sam runs in you, Natalie said. No surprise Im headstrong.
Her mother managed a weak smile. Genes cant be denied. Thank you for finding the diary. Bitter truth, but better than living in ignorance.
What will you do? Natalie asked. Search for relatives?
I dont know, her mother traced a fingertip over Sams photo. Maybe. First, we must finish clearing the flat. Life goes on, diary or not.
Will we postpone the sale? Natalie suggested cautiously. Give us a month to sort through everything, maybe find an address.
Alright, her mother agreed, surprisingly light. Ill call the estate agent, put the deal on hold. Seventy years of secrets can wait a little longer.
They sat on Eleanors old bed, surrounded by the warm remnants of a life long past, each lost in thought. Natalie marveled at how a single choice could ripple through generations; her mother reflected on what it meant to be a daughter, on a love stronger than blood, on a truth that arrived too late.
My mum isnt angry with me, her mother eventually said. She did what she thought was right. And Victor hell always be my true father, no matter what biology says.
I understand, Natalie replied. Family is more than genetics.
Her mother gently closed the diary, slipped Sams photograph into her pocket, and said, Ill keep it. A piece of my history, however hidden it was.
Natalie embraced her, feeling a new closeness forged by shared secrets. Life moved forward, now layered with fresh knowledge and fresh questions, but the core remained unchanged: the love that bound them across decades, the whisper of Eleanors diary serving as a bridge between past and future, a reminder that every family story hides an entire universe of feeling, choices, and fate.
