**The Diary**
After her father passed away, Emily and her husband decided to sell their country house in the Lake District. Emily was expecting a baby, and they needed the money to buy a larger flat in London.
It was a warm September afternoon. Emily looked around the village and barely recognised it. Over the past year, tall fences had been erected, and where dilapidated cottages once stood, new houses with brightly coloured roofs now stood. Only their house remained unchanged.
James parked the Land Rover by the front steps. Emily stepped out, stretching her back. The air was crisp, so fresh it almost made her lightheaded. She unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The house felt smaller than she remembered—cramped, as if it had shrunk in their absence.
No one had lived there for a full year. After her mother’s passing, her father had visited alone. The garden was large, but he never planted anything—just wandered into the woods or went fishing. Even last year, sick as he was, he’d insisted on coming. He claimed the air here healed him.
In early May, they’d brought him back. Only then did Emily realise how much he’d weakened. He couldn’t stay alone, so she persuaded him to return to the city with them. A month later, he took to his bed, and by the end of September, he was gone.
She and James were city people at heart. They wouldn’t visit often—too far, and holidays were meant for the coast. Without care, the house would decay. It already looked neglected. Best to sell now while it was still sturdy. If they ever longed for the quiet and fresh air again, they’d buy a cottage closer to town.
Tears welled in Emily’s eyes at the swell of memories. The house had been her grandparents’ before it passed to her parents. First, her mother had gone, then her grandparents, and last year, her father.
She stood before a portrait of a young girl on the wall. James came in, carrying a bag of supplies, and wrapped his arms around her from behind.
*”I’ve never seen this picture. How old were you here?”* he asked, studying the photograph.
*”That’s not me—it’s Mum. Sixteen or seventeen, I think. Still in school.”*
*”You look just like her. I thought it was you.”* He tilted his head. *”Pass me the bucket. I’ll fetch water, and you can put the kettle on.”*
Emily sniffled and went to the kitchen, returning with a galvanised bucket. *”It was upside down on the shelf. Rinse it first. The tap’s two houses down.”*
*”I remember.”* James stepped outside, the empty bucket creaking in his grip.
Back in the kitchen, Emily flicked the switch on the electric hob. Nothing. *”Fuse must be out.”* She found the breakers under the meter in the sitting room. Slotting them back in, she touched the metal disc—warm.
She glanced around. There was nothing she wanted to take, except for her mother’s picture. She ought to ask the neighbours if they needed anything.
After tea, she went next door. Their house wasn’t separated by a high fence.
*”Selling, then?”* asked Mrs. Wilkins.
*”Yes,”* Emily nodded.
*”Mind if I take a look? Not that I need more clutter. Shall I spread the word?”*
*”Please,”* Emily said, relieved.
Back home, James was sorting what to burn. The hearth needed lighting anyway—the house was damp. While he stacked kindling, Emily climbed up to the loft on a ladder that sagged under her weight.
*”Want me to go instead?”* James called from below.
*”No, it’s fine.”*
As a girl, she’d been afraid of the loft. At night, she’d hear footsteps above her—someone pacing. Her father had said it was just the cats or the house settling after a hot day. Still, she’d pull the covers over her head to sleep.
Sunlight streamed through a small square window, dust motes dancing in its beam.
*”Nothing scary up here,”* she murmured.
At her voice, shadows in the corners seemed to shrink. She avoided the thick cobwebs strung between old laundry lines. Opening a box, she found Christmas decorations. *”Grandma and Grandpa actually put up a tree?”* She’d never spent winter here.
Another box held forgotten toys. Near the far wall stood a spinning wheel. Nothing she wanted. About to leave, she caught sight of a book or notebook jutting beneath a loose floorboard.
She tugged it free—an old notebook, pages yellowed and stuck together with time. Under the dates were entries. A diary. Her mother’s diary.
Reading someone else’s diary felt wrong. Her mother had been gone for years, yet her thoughts remained, pressed into the paper. But then again—why did people write diaries? So someone would read them someday. Why had her mother hidden this one?
Emily sat on an upturned bucket and flipped through. Some entries were long, but most were just a few lines. She opened a page at random.
**21.06.1988**
*Michael came back yesterday. He’s so handsome now! Today we met by the river. He was already swimming when I arrived. When he saw me, he climbed out—so much taller than before. Standing beside him, I felt small…*
**23.06.1988**
*He said I was beautiful. The way he looked at me made me blush. I can’t stop thinking about him…*
Emily looked up. She’d known her mother as *Mum*—not as a girl in love with someone who wasn’t her father. Guilt prickled. Did she have the right to read this? Would she want someone digging through her own thoughts? But she’d never kept a diary—thought it pointless. Writing everything down just to cringe at your past self later? Silly. Then again, if you had secrets, you’d burn them, not hide them.
Curiosity won. She kept reading, skimming through pages of stolen kisses and whispered confessions.
**25.08.1988**
*He’s gone. I don’t know how to live without him. If I were a bird, I’d fly after him. He won’t come back next summer—he’s starting university. Is this really it? I don’t want this. I can’t bear it.*
There it was. Poor Mum. She’d once told Emily that sorrow made joy sweeter. Now Emily understood.
The next entry was seven years later. She must have left the diary here.
**06.07.1995**
*James convinced me to visit Dad in the village. He’s started a new job—no holiday leave. Didn’t want me stuck in the stifling city. Dad was happy to see me. He baked a pie yesterday—almost like Mum’s. He’s holding up, though he still misses her. Funny, does a house grow old too? It feels smaller now.*
Emily shivered. She’d thought the same thing.
*I’ve changed, not the house. Felt cramped here. Saw Michael. He’s broader now. We said hello from a distance, and I hurried inside. Through the curtain, I saw him still watching. That ship has sailed. I’m married. I love my husband. Still, my heart raced—no point lying…*
**07.07.1995**
*He came to the river while I was washing clothes. I left quickly. The last thing I needed was gossip. But the way he looked at me—I wanted the ground to swallow me. Coward. I’ll just ignore him.*
She flipped further. A dried flower fell apart as she touched it.
**15.07.1995**
*What have I done?! There’s no excuse. I love my husband. How can I face him now?…*
**16.07.1995**
*James called to say he can’t visit this weekend—some work trip. Good. I’m terrified he’d see right through me. One moment of weakness shouldn’t ruin everything. Wait—a trip on the weekend? Is he seeing someone too? Oh, listen to me. My own guilt talking! Serves him right. Why did he send me here alone?…*
**24.07.1995**
*James finally came. I missed him so much. I feel wretched… It’s impossible to avoid Michael here. Every time I step outside, he’s there. God, why is this happening?*
**25.07.1995**
*Dad and James went fishing. James caught a pike—so proud, like a little boy. Asked me to take a picture. One more week before I go home. Back in London, I’ll forget this ever happened…*
The final entry was from August. Between the pages lay a torn note: *”Michael, we need to talk. Meet me at our spot—11 o’clock.”*
What had she wanted to say? Why tear it up? Had she come back another summer? Emily knew she should stop—let secrets stay buried. But the diary pulled herEmily smiled faintly, tucking the memory away like an old photograph, and turned her gaze toward the road ahead as their car carried them home, leaving the past behind where it belonged.
