Mom, I cant just toss all her stuff! Natalie shouted, clutching her mobile. It may be old junk, but its my grans memories!
Natty, calm down, her mothers voice crackled, weary and a touch irritable. Im not saying throw everything away. But you have no idea how much rubbish there isclothes from the thirties, newspaper cutouts, random boxes Gran never threw anything out.
And she was right to keep them, Natalie retorted stubbornly. Unlike us, forever chasing the latest gadgets, she valued what she owned.
Valued, 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 surveyed the cramped onebedroom flat on the outskirts of Manchester. The place felt even smaller under the weight of every last item. Gran Evelyn had slipped away quietly in her sleep, and, barely weeks after the funeral, her daughter decided to sell the flat. Why keep an empty flat in the middle of nowhere? Money is more useful, shed explained. And of course the task of sifting through eight decades of accumulated belongings fell to Natalie.
Youre on holiday, Im working, her mother reminded her. Natalie didnt bother mentioning that her holiday was booked for a beach, not for rummaging through dustcaked wardrobes. After all, Evelyn meant far more to her than her own mother did.
She started in the kitchen, pulling out crockery and setting aside a few keepsakes: a vintage teapot, a handpainted sugar bowl and a set of pearlhandled teaspoons. The rest she packed into boxes bound for charity.
By evening the first day, her back throbbed from exhaustion. She brewed tea in Grans old teapot and sank onto the sofa, leafing through faded photographs from the cupboard. There was Gran as a young woman, long braids looping around her headuncannily like Natalies own. There was her mother as a schoolgirl in a scout scarf. And there was a tiny infant cradled in Grans armsNatalie herself.
Curiously, there were hardly any pictures of Granddad Victor. He had died before Natalie was born, and the family spoke of him sparingly, almost reluctantly. He was a good man, but life didnt favour him, her mother had once said when Natalie asked.
On day two she tackled the bedroom. A mountain of clothing made her sigh: neatly folded nightgowns, knitted cardigans, bits of fabricGran loved to sew. Almost everything was old, but impeccably clean and ironed.
Methodically she emptied each shelf and drawer. In the far corner of the wardrobe, behind a stack of sheets, she found a shoebox tied with twine. She untied it carefully.
Inside lay letters, several notebooks and a battered diary bound in a rough leather cover. She grabbed a faded envelope, its postmark dating from the 1950s, and read:
Dear Ninnie! Writing from the road. Ill be in the camp tomorrow The handwriting was tidy, masculine. The signature at the bottom read Your Andy. Granddad Victors name, however, was Victor. Who was this Andy?
She set the letter aside and opened the diary. On the first page, in Grans familiar hand, it read: The Diary of Evelyn Wright. Began 12 April 1954.
Night fell before she could finish. In the early entries, a youthful Evelyn wrote about university life, friends, and her first loveexactly the Andy from the letter. Theyd met at a dance, fallen headoverheels, and made plans. Then the army called him up.
She turned the pages, living Evelyns world. An August 1956 entry said: Received a letter from Andy. He says hell be back for a visit. I miss him so terribly! By November of that year the diary declared: Andy left. Those two weeks were the happiest of my life. Now I must wait a year for his discharge. We promised to marry as soon as he returns. Until then I keep his photo under my pillow.
The pages were full of love notes, anxieties, hopes. Then the tone shifted. A shaky February 1957 entry read:
Got the news today. Andy died on duty. No details. I cant believe it. I dont want to believe it. How do I go on?
Natalie closed the diary, a lump forming in her throat. Poor Granfirst love and such a tragedy. No wonder she never spoke of it.
The next day she learned that Gran fell into a deep depression after Andys death. Then Victor, a comrade of the fallen soldier, turned up to tell her about Andys final days. He was kind, supportive, and their friendship blossomed.
10 September 1957. Victor proposed. I dont love him like I loved Andy, but hes good and reliable. Mum says I should settle down; Im twentythree, time for a family. Yet I cant let go of Andy
The wedding was modest. Evelyn wrote that she tried to be a good wife, but Andys memory kept surfacing. Victor seemed to sense it, though he never said a word.
Then a breathstealing entry:
20 June 1958. Im three months pregnant. The baby isnt Victors. Before Victor left on a posting I met SashaAndys cousin. Wed known each other while Andy was alive. He looks just like Andy Same eyes, same gestures. We ran into each other in the park, talked about Andy, and one night it felt like a dream, like I was with Andy again. It was madness I now regret. Victor thinks the child is his and is overjoyed I cant tell him the truth. It would kill him. Living a lie is beyond me. Lord, what should I do?
Natalie slammed the diary shut. So her mother wasnt Victors daughter after all? Who was the real grandfatherthis Sasha, Andys cousin?
Stunned, she kept reading. Gran never told Victor the truth. I chose to keep the secretfor Victor, for the child. No one will ever know. When her mother was born, Gran wrote she couldnt meet her eyes: Tanya looks just like Andysame eyes, same face shape. Sasha would recognise her, but hes gone to York and we never saw each other again. Better this way; less temptation to break the family.
Entries grew sparser, finally ending in 1965: Today Tanya turned seven. Victor loves her dearly. Theyre building a birdhouse together at the cottage. I see now that blood isnt everything. Victor is her real fatherloving, caring. The secret stays a secret. Closing the diary forever. Goodbye, past life.
Natalie set the diary down, a swarm of questions buzzing in her head. Did her mother ever know? She always spoke of her father Victor with pride. Could Sasha still be alive, now eightyplus? Any cousins she never met?
She returned to the box and, at the bottom, found a faded photograph of a young soldier in a cap, smiling at the camera. Turning it over, a caption read Andy, 1955. Beside it lay another picture labelled Sasha, 1958, a man with softer features and lighter hair, strikingly similar to the first.
She held the photos up to her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Yes, the resemblance was undeniableespecially the eyes and jawline. No wonder her mother always asked, Why dont I look like you? It turned out the answer lay in a longlost cousin.
Now she faced a choice: tell her mother or keep the secret? Did she have the right to know that the man shed called father all her life wasnt her biological dad?
She heard the front door slam.
Natty! You in there? her mother called, pulling Natalie back to the present.
Just in the bedroom! Natalie shouted, hurriedly shoving the diary and photos back into the box.
Her mother peeked in.
Hows it going? I popped round after work to give you a hand.
Fine, Natalie managed a nervous smile. Just sorting things out.
Her mothers eyes swept the scattered items and landed on the box of letters.
Whats that?
Oh, just Grans letters and diaries. I havent gone through them all yet.
Diaries? her mother raised an eyebrow. I didnt know Gran kept one.
She moved closer, and Natalie realised the concealment was over.
Mum, she began gently, did you ever wonder why Gran never talked much about her youth?
No, why? her mother sat on the edge of the bed. She just didnt like dwelling on the past. Everyones different, love.
Did you know she had a fiancé before Victor? A man named Andy who died in the army?
Heard a rumor once, her mother admitted uncertainly. Is it in the diary?
Yes, and more, Natalie took a deep breath. Are you sure you want to know?
Her mother frowned. What is it? Speak plainly.
The diary says Victor isnt your biological father.
Silence fell, heavy enough to hear the ticking of the old mantel clock.
What nonsense is that? her mother finally snapped. Hand me the diary.
Natalie handed it over; her mother put on her reading glasses and flipped through. Her expression shifted from surprise to shock, then to anger.
No it cant be. Dad always said I was his spitting image
Mum, Natalie said softly, touching her hand, whats written doesnt change the love Victor gave you. He was your dad in every meaningful way. Biology is just biology.
Why didnt she tell us? her mothers voice cracked. I had a right to know!
She feared the family would fall apart, Natalie replied quietly. And Sasha, the man youre really linked to, never knew either, at least thats what the diary says.
Her mother leafed through the pages, as if hoping for a denial.
Im sixty now, she whispered. Ive lived my whole life in the dark. What now? Hunt down Sasha? Hed be eightyplus if hes still breathing.
Its your call, Natalie said, sitting beside her. Maybe you have halfsiblings you never met. Our family could be larger than we thought.
Her mother shook her head. I need to process all this. I dont know how to feel about Mum now. So many lies
It wasnt a lie, just an omissionfor your happiness, Natalie offered.
Easy for you to say! her mother snapped. Your world just got flipped upside down!
Natalie stayed quiet. The shock hit her mother harder than it ever could her.
After a while, her mothers face softened.
I always wondered why I didnt look like Victor. He was steady, measured; Im all over the place, restless. Mum said I resembled her father, but I never saw a picture of him Now it makes sense.
She studied Sashas photo, eyes lingering on the familiar features.
He looks like me, she sighed. And you, too, Nattyespecially the eyes.
So Ive got the blood of two soldiersAndy and Sasha, Natalie joked. No wonder Im stubborn.
Her mother managed a faint smile. Cant cheat genetics. But you know what, daughter? Im grateful you found that diary. Bitter truth, yes, but better than living in ignorance.
What will you do? Natalie asked. Search for relatives?
Maybe, her mother mused, tracing the photograph. First, though, we still have to deal with the flat and the belongings. Life goes on, secrets or not.
Could we hold off on the sale? Natalie suggested cautiously. Give us another month to finish sorting, maybe find an address or clue.
Alright, her mother replied surprisingly breezy. Ill call the estate agent and put the deal on ice. Youre right; theres no rush. Seventy years of secrecy can wait a little longer.
They sat on Grans 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 ripple through generations; her mother contemplated what it meant to be a daughter, the love that outlived blood, and the truth that sometimes arrives far too late.
Honestly, her mother finally said, Im not angry at Gran. She did what she thought was best. And Victor hell always be my dad, no matter what the diary says.
I get it, Natalie nodded. Family isnt just DNA.
Her mother gently closed the diary and slipped it back into the box, but kept Sashas photo in her hand.
I think Ill keep this, she said. A piece of my story, even if I only just discovered it.
Natalie hugged her mother, feeling a new closeness forged by shared secrets and newfound understanding.
Life moved forward, armed with fresh knowledge and fresh questions. Yet the core stayed the samea love that bound them across decades, a grandmothers diary that acted as a bridge between past and present, and the quiet certainty that every family history hides an entire universe of feelings, choices, and fates.
