**The Diary**
After her father’s death, Daisy and her husband decided to sell their cottage in the countryside. She was expecting a baby, and they needed the money to buy a bigger flat in London.
It was a warm September afternoon. Daisy stared at the village and barely recognised it. Tall fences had sprung up in the past year, and where old shacks once stood, colourful-roofed new houses now crowded the lanes. Only their home remained unchanged.
Tom parked the Land Rover by the porch. Daisy stepped out, stretching, dizzy from the crisp air. She unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The house felt smaller somehow, as if it had shrunk in their absence.
A whole year had passed since anyone had lived here. After her mother’s death, her father had come alone. The garden was large, but he never planted anything, preferring to wander the woods or fish in the river. Even last summer, when he was already ill, he’d insisted on coming. “The air heals,” he’d said.
They’d brought him here in early May, but once inside, Daisy realised how frail he’d become. There was no way he could stay. She convinced him to return with them to the city. A month later, he took to his bed, and by the end of September, he was gone.
She and Tom were city people—they had no plans to visit often. It was too far from London, and holidays were always spent by the seaside. Left unattended, the place would rot. It already looked neglected. Better to sell now, while it was still sturdy. If they ever missed the quiet or the country air, they could always buy something closer later.
Tears pricked Daisy’s eyes as memories crashed over her. The house had been left to them by her grandparents. First her mother had gone, then, one by one, Granny and Grandad, and last year, her father.
She stood before a portrait of a young girl on the wall. Tom carried in a bag of supplies, wrapped his arms around her from behind.
“Never seen this photo of you before. How old were you here?” he asked, tilting his head at the image.
“That’s not me—it’s Mum. Sixteen or seventeen, still in school, I think.”
“You look just like her. Thought it was you.” He nudged her chin. “Grab the bucket—I’ll fetch water for tea.”
Daisy sniffled and headed to the kitchen, returning with a galvanised bucket.
“It was upside down. Give it a rinse. The pump’s two houses down,” she said, handing it to him.
“Yeah, I remember.” Tom went out, the empty bucket creaking in his grip.
Back in the kitchen, Daisy flicked on the electric stove. Nothing. “The fuses,” she muttered. They were tucked beneath the meter in the front room. She screwed them back in, pressed a palm to the hotplate—warm metal bloomed under her touch.
She glanced around. She wouldn’t take anything from here, except maybe her mother’s photo. She should ask the neighbours if they wanted any of the old things.
After tea, she popped next door. No tall fence separated their gardens.
“Selling, then?” asked Auntie Margaret.
Daisy nodded.
“I’ll come have a look, though God knows I’ve got enough clutter. Want me to tell the others?”
“Please,” Daisy said, relieved.
Back home, Tom sorted through junk to burn. The stove needed lighting anyway—the house was damp. As he crumpled newspaper, Daisy climbed the rickety attic ladder, its wood groaning under her weight.
“Want me to do it?” Tom called from below.
“I’ve got it.”
Once, she’d been terrified of the attic. At night, footsteps had paced overhead—someone walking where no one should be. Her father swore it was just the house cooling or cats clambering over the roof. Still, she’d buried herself under the duvet until dawn.
Sunlight bled through a small square window, dust motes dancing in its glow.
“Nothing scary up here,” Daisy murmured.
The shadows in the corners shrank. She sidestepped cobwebs strung between the rafters—Granny had dried laundry here when it rained. One box held Christmas baubles. “They used to put up a tree?” She’d never visited in winter.
Another box was full of toys she didn’t remember. A spinning wheel lurked in the corner. Nothing worth keeping. As she turned to leave, a corner of paper peeked from beneath a loose floorboard near the eaves.
She tugged it free—an old notebook, pages yellowed, stuck together with age. Scribbled dates marked entries. Her mother’s diary.
Reading someone else’s diary was wrong. But Mum had been gone so long. And what were diaries for, if not to be found? Why had she hidden this under the roof?
Daisy perched on an upturned bucket, flipping pages at random.
*21.06.1988 – Michael came home yesterday. He’s so handsome now. Today, I saw him swimming at the river. He climbed out when he noticed me—taller than me by a head at least. Felt tiny beside him…*
*23.06. – He said I was beautiful. The way he looked at me—my skin burned. Can’t stop thinking about him…*
Daisy stopped. She’d known her mother as a mother, not as a girl in love with someone who wasn’t Dad. Was this trespassing? Would she want anyone rifling through her own thoughts? But she’d never kept a diary—what was the point? Scribbling down every little thing just to cringe at it years later? Ridiculous. If you had secrets, why write them down at all?
Curiosity won. She read on, skimming pages of kisses and whispered confessions.
*25.08. – He’s gone. I don’t know how to breathe. If I were a bird, I’d follow him. Doubt he’ll be back next summer—off to university. Is this really it? I can’t bear it.*
Poor Mum. She’d once told Daisy sadness made joy sweeter. Now the words made sense.
Years leaped ahead in the next entry—her mother had abandoned the diary for seven.
*6.07.1995 – Tom talked me into visiting Dad. His new job means no holiday time, and he didn’t want me stuck in the city. Dad was thrilled. Baked a pie yesterday, almost as good as Mum’s. He’s holding up, but still grieving. Do houses age? This one feels shrunken.*
Daisy blinked. She’d thought the same thing earlier.
*It’s me who’s changed, not the house. Too small for me now. Saw Michael. He’s broader. We nodded from a distance, then I fled inside. Later, I caught him staring at the windows. Too late now. I’m married, and I love my husband. (Though I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t stutter.)*
*7.07. – He came to the river while I was washing clothes. I left fast—last thing we need is gossip. But the way he looked at me… I wanted to vanish. Coward. Easier to pretend he doesn’t exist.*
She turned sticky pages. A dried flower crumbled when she touched it.
*15.07. – What have I done?! No excuses. I love Tom. How can I face him after this?*
*16.07. – Tom called—can’t visit this weekend, some work trip. Thank God. I’d give myself away. Can’t wreck everything for one stupid mistake. (A weekend “work trip”? Who’s he seeing? Oh, listen to me—guilty as charged, but still jealous. His fault. Why’d he send me here alone?)*
*24.07. – Tom’s back. Missed him so much. Feel wretched… Michael’s everywhere I turn. God, why is this happening?*
*25.07. – Dad and Tom went fishing. Tom caught a pike—giggled like a kid, made me take a photo. Holiday’s over soon. Back to London, back to forgetting…*
The last entry was dated 6th August. Between the pages, a torn note: *”Michael, need to talk. Meet me at the usual spot, 11.”*
Why had Mum ripped it? Did she ever come back here? Daisy knew she should stop, let the past lie. But the diary pulled her in. She flipped back.
*”Michael leaves tomorrow. Should I tell him? No—let him go. Tom’s over the moon about the baby, won’t let me lift a finger. Silly man. As if I didn’t haul water buckets before. Goodbye—”* (the next word was scribbled out so hard the pen tore the page.) *”I won’t tell him. I love Tom. What happened was madness, a mistake. Maybe it is Tom’s baby? Please, please let it be.”*
The entries ended there.
“So Mum cheated on Dad with this Michael?” The thought stuck like a burr. Dad had adored her—called her his princess, spoiled herShe closed the diary gently, the weight of the past settling into silence like dust in the attic, and for the first time, she understood that some secrets were meant to be buried.
