Sorting through my late grandmothers things, I stumbled upon her diary and finally learned who my real father was.
No, Mum, I cant just dump everything! Natalie shouted, phone clenched to her ear. It may be old junk, but its my grandmothers memories!
Nat, calm down, her mothers voice sounded weary over the line. Im not saying throw it all away, but you have no idea how much rubbish is in therecloths from the thirties, newspaper clippings, random boxes Grandmother never threw anything out.
Exactly, Natalie retorted stubbornly. Unlike us, always chasing the new, she cherished what she owned.
Cherished right, her mother sighed. Fine, sort it however you like. Just clear the flat by the end of the week; the new owners are already signing the papers.
Natalie hung up and looked around the tiny onebedroom council flat on the outskirts of Manchester. It seemed even smaller 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 Margaret decided to sell the flat. Why keep an empty flat half a mile away when we need the money? she had reasoned, and she put the task of sifting through eighty years of belongings on Natalies shoulders.
Youre on holiday, Im at work, Margaret reminded her. Natalie didnt mention that her break was meant for a seaside trip, not for digging through old wardrobes. In the end, Eleanor meant more to Natalie than she ever did to her own daughter.
She began in the kitchen, pulling out plates and setting aside a few keepsakes: a vintage tea kettle, a painted sugar bowl and a set of pearlhandled teaspoons. The rest she boxed for charity.
By evening, her back throbbed with fatigue. Natalie brewed tea in Eleanors kettle and settled on the sofa, leafing through the photo album shed found in the pantry. There was Eleanor as a young woman with a long braid wrapped around her headjust like Natalies. There was Margaret as a schoolgirl in a Brownie scarf. And there was a tiny newborn in Eleanors arms, cradled by a proud grandmother.
Strangely, there were almost no pictures of the 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 go his way, Margaret had once said when Natalie pressed for details.
On the second day she tackled the bedroom. A mountain of clothingneatly folded nightgowns, woollen jumpers, scraps of fabricmade her feel discouraged; Eleanor had loved to sew. Almost everything was old but impeccably clean and ironed.
Methodically she inspected 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 battered diary bound in a green cover. She grabbed the first letter at randoma faded envelope stamped from the 1950s.
Dear Ellie! Writing to you from the road. I arrive tomorrow the neat, masculine handwriting read. The signature at the bottom read Your Andrew. The grandfathers name was Victor, so who was Andrew?
She set the letter aside and opened the diary. On the first page, in Eleanors familiar script, was written: Diary of Eleanor Wright. Begun 12 April 1954.
Night fell before she could read any further. In the early entries the young Eleanor described university life, friendships and her first loveAndrew, the man from the letter. They had met at a dance, fallen in love and made plans, until he was called up for National Service.
The pages turned, and Eleanors voice grew brighter. August 1956 entry: Received a letter from Andrew. He says hell be home soon. How Ive missed him! By November: Andrew left again. Those two weeks were the happiest of my life. Now I must wait a year for his discharge. Well marry as soon as he returns. I keep his photo under my pillow.
Love and hope filled the pages until February 1957, when the handwriting became shaky: Today I got the news. Andrew died on duty. No details. I cant believe it. I dont want to believe. How do I go on?
Natalie felt a lump rise in her throat. Her grandmothers first love had ended in tragedy, explaining the silence that had followed.
The next day she learned that after Andrews death Eleanor fell into a deep depression. Then Victor, a comrade of the fallen soldier, arrived to share the story of Andrews final days. He was kind to the grieving Eleanor and slowly became her partner.
10 September 1957. Victor proposed. I dont love him as I loved Andrew, but hes reliable. Mum says I need to settle down; Im twentythree, time for a family. Yet I cant let go of Andrew Eleanor wrote.
The wedding was modest. Eleanor tried to be a good wife, but Andrews memory lingered. Victor sensed it without saying a word.
Then a shocking entry made Natalies breath catch: 20 June 1958. Im three months pregnant, but the child isnt Victors. Before Victor left on a posting I met SamAndrews cousin. Wed known each other from before Andrews death. He looks just like him The night we talked about Andrew felt like a vision. One reckless night, and now Im carrying a child. Victor believes its his, hes so happy I cant tell him the truth. It would destroy him, but living a lie is more than I can bear.
The diary slammed shut. Natalies mind whirled. If Eleanors story was true, then her mother Margarets father was not Victor but Sam, Andrews cousin. Who, then, was her real grandfather?
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 daughterNatalies motherwas born, Eleanor wrote that she could not look at her because she resembled Andrew: Imogen looks just like Andrewsame eyes, same face shape. If Sam saw her picture hed recognise Hes away in Liverpool now, so Ill keep it hidden. Better that way.
Entries grew sparse and stopped altogether, the last dated 1965: Imogen is seven. Victor loves her dearly. Theyre building a birdhouse together. I realise blood isnt everything. Victor is a true father. The secret stays a secret. I close this diary forever. Goodbye, past life.
Natalie placed the diary aside, a storm of questions swirling. Did her mother ever know? She always spoke lovingly of her father Victor, yet now Sam might be her biological grandfather. Were there halfsiblings she never met?
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 back read Andrew, 1955. Beside it was another picture signed Sam, 1958. The second man bore a striking resemblance to the first, though his hair was lighter.
She held the photos up to the mirror in the wardrobe and saw the similarity in eyes and jawline. No wonder Margaret once asked, Why dont I look like Dad? The answer lay in the faces of Andrew and Sam.
Now she faced a choice: tell her mother or keep the secret? Did she have the right to reveal that the man her mother had always called father was not her biological one?
She didnt notice the front door slamming shut until her mothers voice called out.
Nat! Are you there? Margarets voice pulled her back.
Yes, in the bedroom! Natalie shouted, hurriedly stuffing the diary and photos back into the box.
Margaret stepped in, eyes scanning the chaos. Hows it going? I came over after work to help.
Okay, Natalie replied with an awkward smile. Just taking it slow.
Margarets gaze landed on the box of letters.
Whats that? she asked.
Oh, just Grandmas old letters and diaries. I havent gone through everything yet.
Diaries? Margaret raised an eyebrow. I didnt know Mum kept one.
She moved closer, and Natalie realized the discovery couldnt stay hidden.
Mum, have you ever wondered why Grandma never talked much about her youth? Natalie began cautiously.
No, why? Margaret sat on the edge of the bed. She didnt like to dwell on the past. Whats up?
Did you know she had a fiancé before Victor? A man named Andrew who died in the army? Natalie asked.
Margaret frowned. Ive heard whispers, but nothing concrete. Is it in the diary?
Yes, and more, Natalie took a breath. Mum, are you sure you want to know?
What do you mean? Margaret pressed.
The diary says Victor wasnt your biological father. Natalies words hung in the air.
Silence settled, broken only by the ticking of the old mantel clock.
What nonsense is that? Margaret finally exclaimed, reaching for the diary.
Natalie handed it over. Margaret put on her glasses and began to read. Her expression shifted from curiosity to shock, then to anger.
No it cant be. Dad always said I was his copy Margaret whispered.
Mom, Natalie said gently, touching her hand, whats written doesnt change the love Victor gave you. He raised you, he was your dad. Biology is just biology.
Why didnt she tell us? Margarets voice trembled. I had the right to know!
She feared the family would fall apart, Natalie replied softly. And Sam never knew anything either, at least thats how the diary reads.
Margaret flipped through the pages, searching for a contradiction.
Im sixty now, she said hoarsely. Ive lived my whole life in the dark. What now? Should I look for Sam? Hed be over eighty if hes still alive.
Its your choice, Natalie said, sitting beside her. Maybe you have halfsiblings you never met. Our family could be bigger than we thought.
Margaret shook her head. I need to process this. I dont know how to feel about Mum now. So many lies
It wasnt a lie, just an omission, for our peace, Natalie replied.
Easy for you to say! Margaret snapped. Your world has just turned upside down!
Natalie stayed quiet. She knew her mothers turmoil eclipsed her own shock.
After a while, Margarets face softened. 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 his picture Now I see why.
She examined Sams photograph. He looks like me, especially the eyes.
So I carry the blood of two soldiersAndrew and Sam, Natalie laughed softly. No wonder Im so stubborn.
Margaret smiled faintly. 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 now? Natalie asked. Search for relatives?
Im not sure, Margaret ran a finger over the photo. Maybe. But first we have to finish clearing the flat. Life goes on, diary or not.
Could we postpone the sale? Natalie suggested. Give us a month to sort through everything, maybe find an address or a clue.
Alright, Margaret agreed surprisingly easily. Ill call the estate agent and put it on hold. Youre rightseventy years of secret can wait a bit longer.
They sat on Eleanors old bed, surrounded by the remnants of a life long gone, each lost in her own thoughts. Natalie marveled at how a single decision could reshape generations. Margaret reflected on what it meant to be a daughter, on a love stronger than blood, and on a truth that arrived far too late.
I’m not angry at Mum, Margaret finally said. She did what she thought was right. And Dad he will always be my dad, no matter what the diary says.
I understand, Natalie nodded. Family isnt just DNA.
Margaret carefully closed the diary and slipped it back into the box, keeping Sams photograph with her.
Ill keep this, she said. A piece of my history, even if I only just learned about it.
Natalie hugged her mother, feeling a new closeness forged by shared secret and mutual understanding.
Life moved forward, enriched by new knowledge and new questions. Yet the core remained unchangedthe love that bound them across decades and hidden stories. Eleanors diary had become a bridge between past and present, proving that every family carries a universe of feelings, choices, and destinies. In the end, the truth taught them that honesty, however painful, is the foundation on which genuine connection is built.
