Mum, I cant just toss all her stuff! I shouted, clutching the phone. It may be junk, but its my grandmothers memories!
Natalie, dont yell, my mothers voice sounded tired and a bit annoyed. Im not saying throw everything away, but you have no idea how much crap is in there. Rags from the 70s, newspaper clippings, random boxes Grandma never threw anything out.
And she was right about that, I retorted stubbornly. Unlike us, always chasing the latest thing, she valued what she had.
Valued Mum sighed. Fine, sort it however you like. Just clear the flat by the end of the week. The new owners are already finalising the paperwork.
I hung up and looked around with a sigh. My tiny onebedroom flat on the outskirts of Manchester felt even smaller with every piece of stuff crammed into every corner. Grandma Nora had passed quietly in her sleep, and barely a week after the funeral, Mum decided to sell the place. Why keep an empty flat on the other side of town? We need the cash, shed said, and of course it fell to me to sort through eight decades of accumulated belongings.
Youre on holiday, Im at work, Mum reminded me. I didnt bother mentioning that my break was meant for a beach getaway, not for rummaging through old wardrobes. After all, Nora meant more to me than Mum ever did.
I started in the kitchen, pulling out dishes and setting aside a few keepsakes: an antique teapot, a handpainted sugar bowl, and a set of pearlhandled teaspoons. The rest I boxed up for charity.
By evening my back was buzzing with fatigue. I brewed tea in Noras teapot and plonked myself on the sofa, leafing through the old photos Id found in the pantry. There was Nora as a young woman, her braid wrapped around her headjust like mine. My mother as a schoolgirl in a scout uniform. And a tiny newborn, cradled in Noras armsthat was me.
Strangely, there were almost no pictures of Grandpa Victor. Hed died before I was born, and the family never talked much about him. He was a good man, but life didnt go his way, Mum had once said when I pried.
The next day I tackled the bedroom. A mountain of clothes made me sigh: neatly folded nightgowns, woolly sweaters, scraps of fabricNora loved to sew. Almost everything was old but impeccably clean and ironed.
Methodically I checked every shelf and drawer. In the back corner of the wardrobe, behind a stack of sheets, I found a shoebox tied up with twine. I untied it carefully.
Inside were letters, a few notebooks, and a wornout diary bound in cracked leather. I grabbed one of the letters at randoma faded envelope stamped in the 1950s.
Dear Nini! Writing from the road. Ill be at the base tomorrow the neat, masculine hand read. Signed at the bottom, Yours, Andrew. So my grandfathers name was Andrew. Who was Andrew?
I set the letter aside and opened the diary. On the first page, in Noras distinctive script, it read: Diary of Nora Whitfield. Began 12 April 1954.
Night fell before I could read much more. In the early entries, a young Nora wrote about university life, friends, and her first loveAndrew from the letter. Theyd met at a dance, fallen in love, made plans, then he was called up for national service.
I flipped forward to August 1956: Got a letter from Andrew. He says hell be home soon. I miss him so much! Then, November that year: Andrew left. These two weeks have been the happiest of my life. Now I have to wait a year for his demob. Weve decided to marry as soon as hes back. For now I keep his photo under my pillow.
The pages were full of sweet nothings, worries, hopes. Then the tone shifted. A February 1957 entry, the handwriting shaky: Ive just been told. Andrew died on duty. No details. I cant believe it. I dont want to believe it. How do I go on?
My throat tightened. Poor Nora. First love ripped away. No wonder she never spoke of it.
The following day I kept reading. After Andrews death, Nora sank into deep depression. Then Victor, a comrade of Andrews, showed up to tell her about his last days. He was kind to the grieving Nora, helped her, and a friendship formed.
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 not a girl anymore. At twentythree I should have a family. Yet I cant let go of Andrew Nora wrote.
The wedding was modest. She tried to be a good wife, but kept thinking of Andrew. Victor seemed to sense it but never said a word.
Then a entry stopped my breath: 20 June 1958. Im three months pregnant. The baby isnt Victors. Before Victor went on deployment, I met SamAndrews cousin. Wed known each other back when Andrew was alive. He looks just like him Same eyes, same gestures. We ran into each other in the park, talked about Andrew, and one night it felt like a dream. I was with my Andrew again. Just one night, a madness I now regret. But now Im carrying a child. Victor thinks its his, hes thrilled I cant tell him the truth. It would kill him. Living a lie is beyond me. Lord, what should I do?
I slammed the diary shut, heart pounding. So my mother isnt Victors daughter? Whos my real grandfatherthis Sam, Andrews cousin?
Stunned, I kept turning pages. Nora never told Victor the truth. I decided to keep the secret. For Victor, for the child. No one will ever know. When her daughtermy motherwas born, Nora wrote she couldnt look her in the eye: Tanya looks so much like Andrewsame eyes, same face shape. Sam would have recognised her. Hes off in Liverpool now, we never saw each other again. Better this way, less temptation to break the family.
Entries grew sparse and stopped in 1965: Tanya turned seven today. Victors heart is full. Theyre building a birdhouse together for the cottage. Looking at them, I realise blood isnt everything. Victor is the real father she needs. The secret stays hidden. Closing the diary forever. Goodbye, past life.
I set the diary aside, my mind buzzing with a million questions. Did Mum ever know? She always spoke lovingly of her father, Victor. So Sam must be my actual biological grandfather? Is he still alive, over eighty? Do I have halfsiblings, aunts, uncles I never met?
I went back to the shoebox. At the bottom was a faded photograph of a young soldier in a cap, smiling at the camera. The back read Andrew, 1955. Beside it was another picture labelled Sam, 1958. He looked like Andrew, but softer features and lighter hair.
I held the photos up to my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. The resemblance was undeniableespecially the eyes and jawline. No wonder Mum always wondered, Why dont I look like Dad? Im nothing like him. Turns out the answer lay in those two men.
Should I tell Mum? Does she have the right to know the man shes always thought was her dad isnt her biological one?
Lost in thought, I didnt notice the front door slam.
Natalie! Are you in there? Mums voice pulled me back.
In the bedroom! I called, shoving the diary and photos back into the box.
Mum peeked in: Hows it going? I figured Id pop over after work and help.
Its fine, I managed a nervous smile. Just sorting stuff slowly.
She glanced at the pile of letters. Whats that?
Just Grandmas letters and diaries. I havent gone through all of them yet.
Diaries? She raised an eyebrow. I didnt know you kept a diary.
She stepped closer and I realised I couldnt hide the find any longer.
Mum, I began gently, have you ever wondered why Grandma never talked much about her younger days?
No, why? She sat on the edge of the bed. She just didnt like dwelling on the past, thats all. Were all different.
Did you know she had another fiancé before Victor? A guy named Andrew who died in the army?
Ive heard a whisper about that, Mum admitted uneasily. Is it in the diary?
Yes, and more, I took a deep breath. Mum, are you sure you want to hear this?
She frowned. What is it? Just tell me.
The diary says I hesitated. It says Victor isnt your biological father.
A heavy silence fell, only the ticking of the old wall clock audible.
What rubbish? Mum finally snapped. Hand me that diary.
I handed it over. She slipped on her glasses and started reading. Her expression shifted from surprise to shock, then to anger.
No, it cant be, she whispered, finishing the entry. Dad always said I was his spitting image
Mum, I reached out, what the diary says doesnt change anything. Victor raised you, loved you, was a real dad. Biology is just biology.
Why didnt she tell me? Mums voice cracked. I had a right to know!
She was scared of losing the family, I replied softly. And Sam, the man who could be your real father, never knew either. Thats what the diary says.
Mum flipped through the pages, as if hoping for a different story.
Im sixty, she said quietly. Ive lived my whole life not knowing this. What now? Do I look for Sam? Hed be eightyplus if hes still alive.
Its up to you, I said, sitting beside her. Maybe you have halfsiblings you never met. Our whole family could be bigger than we thought.
She shook her head. I need to process this. I dont know how to feel about Mom now. So many years of lies.
It wasnt a lie, just a silence, for your happiness, I offered.
Easy for you to say! she snapped back. This isnt my world turned upside down!
I stayed quiet. My shock was nothing compared to hers. She kept reading, the photos and pages softening her expression.
You know, she said after a while, I always wondered why I didnt look like Dad. He was calm and steady, Im all over the place. Mum used to say I looked like her father, but I never saw a picture of him. Now it makes sense.
She stared at Sams photograph. He looks like me, she admitted with a sigh. And you do, too, especially the eyes.
So Ive got the blood of two soldiers in me Andrew and Sam, I joked, trying to lighten the mood. No wonder Im so stubborn.
Mum managed a faint smile. Genes cant be denied. But you know what, daughter? Im grateful you found that diary. Bitter truth, but better than living in ignorance.
What will you do? I asked. Look for relatives?
I dont know, she said, tracing the edge of the photo with her finger. Maybe. But first weve got to finish clearing the flat, sorting the stuff. Life goes on, even with all these revelations.
Maybe we should hold off on the sale? I suggested. Give us another month to finish looking through everything. We might find an address or a clue.
Alright, she replied surprisingly calmly. Ill call the estate agent and put the deal on hold. Youre right, theres no rush. Seventy years of secrets can wait a little longer.
We sat on Noras old bed, surrounded by her things, each lost in our own thoughts. I thought about how one decision, one hidden diary, could reshape generations. Mum thought about what it means to be a daughter, about love thats stronger than blood, and about truth that sometimes arrives too late.
Im not angry at Mom, she finally said. She did what she thought was right. And Dad hell always be my dad, no matter what the biology says.
I get it, I nodded. Family isnt just DNA.
Mum gently closed the diary and slipped it back into the box, but she kept Sams photograph with her.
Ill keep this, she said. Its part of my story, even if I only just learned it.
I gave her a hug, feeling a new closeness form between us, built on a shared secret and a joint discovery.
Life would keep moving, with fresh questions and new answers. But the core stayed the same the love that tied our family together across decades and hidden truths. Nora may have taken her secret to the grave, but she left behind a diary, a bridge between past and present, proof that every family history holds its own universe of feelings, choices, and destinies.
