The Diary
After her father’s death, Daisy and her husband decided to sell their cottage in the country. Daisy was expecting a child, and they needed the money to buy a bigger flat in the city.
It was a warm September afternoon. Daisy stood outside, looking around, but barely recognised the village. In just a year, tall fences had gone up, and where ramshackle old houses once stood, there were new homes with brightly coloured roofs. Only their cottage remained unchanged.
James parked the Land Rover by the front steps. Daisy stepped out, stretching, her head spinning slightly from the crisp air. She unlocked the door and stepped inside. The house felt smaller somehow, cramped.
No one had lived there for a year. After her mother’s death, her father had visited alone. The garden was overgrown—he’d never planted anything, preferring to wander the woods or go fishing. Even when he’d fallen ill last year, he’d insisted on coming back. He always said the air here healed him.
In early May, they’d brought him here one last time. That was when Daisy realised how much he’d declined. He could never live here alone now. So she convinced him to return with them to London. A month later, he was bedridden, and by September, he was gone.
She and James were city people through and through. They wouldn’t visit often—the village was too far, and they usually spent holidays by the seaside anyway. Left empty, the cottage would crumble. It already looked neglected. Best to sell while it was still in good shape. If they ever missed the quiet and fresh air, they could always buy something closer to the city.
Tears welled in Daisy’s eyes as memories washed over her. The cottage had been left to her by her grandparents. First her mother passed, then her grandparents one after the other, and last year, her father.
She stood frozen before a portrait of a young woman on the wall. James came in with a bag of supplies, wrapped his arms around her from behind.
“Don’t remember seeing this photo of you before,” he said, studying the image. “How old were you here?”
“That’s not me,” Daisy murmured. “That’s Mum. Sixteen or seventeen, still in school, I think.”
“You look just like her. Thought it was you.” He turned her to face him. “Pass me the bucket. I’ll fetch water so we can boil some for tea.”
Daisy sniffed and headed to the kitchen. She returned with a rusty tin bucket.
“It was upside down. Rinse it first. The well’s two houses down,” she said, handing it to him.
“Right, I remember.” James stepped outside, the empty bucket clanking as he went.
Back in the kitchen, Daisy flicked on the electric hob—nothing. “Fuse,” she muttered. The fuse box was under the meter in the hallway. She reset it, touching the metal disc—warm already.
She glanced around. There was nothing she wanted to take except her mother’s photo. Maybe she’d ask the neighbours if they needed anything.
After tea, Daisy visited Mrs. Wilkins next door. Their gardens weren’t separated by a high fence.
“Selling, then?” Mrs. Wilkins asked.
“Yes,” Daisy nodded.
“Mind if I have a look? Not that I need more clutter, but I can tell the others.”
“Please do,” Daisy said gratefully.
Back inside, James was sorting out what to burn. The wood stove needed lighting—the house was damp. While he tended to the fire, Daisy climbed the rickety ladder to the attic.
“Want me to go up instead?” James called from below.
“No, I’ll manage.”
Years ago, Daisy had been terrified of the attic. At night, she’d hear footsteps above her. Her father had brushed it off—just the cats or the house settling after a hot day. But she’d still hide under the covers.
Sunlight filtered through a small square window, dust motes dancing in its beam.
“Nothing scary here,” Daisy said aloud.
Shadows shrank into the corners. She avoided the thick cobwebs strung between the rafters—leftover lines where her grandmother used to hang laundry on rainy days. She opened a box—old Christmas decorations.
“Grandma and Grandpa actually put up a tree,” she murmured. She’d never spent winter here.
Another box held forgotten toys. In the corner stood an old spinning wheel. Nothing useful. As she turned to leave, something caught her eye—a corner of a book or notebook sticking out from under a loose floorboard.
She tugged it free—a yellowed exercise book, pages stuck together with age and damp. Dates scrawled across the top. A diary. Her mother’s diary.
It felt wrong to read it. But her mother had been gone for years. Hadn’t diaries been written to be read someday? Then why hide it under the floorboards?
She perched on an upturned bucket and flipped through—some entries long and detailed, most just a few lines. A random page fell open.
*21.06.1988*
*Michael came back yesterday. Handsome as ever. Today we met by the river. He was already swimming when I arrived. He saw me and climbed out—towered over me. Felt so small beside him…*
*23.06.*
*He said I was beautiful. The way he looked at me—made my skin burn. Can’t stop thinking about him…*
Daisy hesitated. She knew her mother as a mother, not as a girl in love with someone who wasn’t her father. It felt like an intrusion. But curiosity won. She read on—pages filled with stolen kisses, whispered promises.
*25.08.*
*He’s gone. Don’t know how to go on. If I were a bird, I’d fly to him. Doubt he’ll come back next year—off to university. Is this really the end?*
Poor Mum. She’d once told Daisy that without sorrow, people wouldn’t appreciate joy. Now Daisy understood.
The next entry was seven years later.
*06.07.1995*
*James convinced me to visit Dad. He’s got a new job, no time off. Doesn’t want me stuck in the city. Dad was thrilled. Baked a pie yesterday—almost like Grandmother’s. He’s holding up, though he still misses her. Funny, the house feels smaller now. Or is it me?*
Daisy paused. She’d thought the same thing earlier.
*Saw Michael. He’s grown into his looks. We nodded across the street. I hurried inside. Saw him watching from behind the curtains. Too late now. I’m married. I love my husband. Even if my heart skipped, I won’t lie…*
*07.07.*
*He came to the river while I was washing laundry. I left. God forbid anyone see us together. But the way he looked at me—wished I could disappear.*
She skipped ahead. A dried flower crumbled between the pages.
*15.07.*
*What have I done? I love my husband. How can I face him?*
*16.07.*
*James called—away on business this weekend. Good. I’d give myself away. Can’t throw everything away for one mistake. Wait—business on a weekend? Is he seeing someone? Hypocrite. Serves him right for sending me here alone.*
*24.07.*
*James came back. Missed him so much. Feel wretched. Can’t avoid Michael—he’s everywhere. Why is this happening?*
*25.07.*
*James and Dad went fishing. James caught a pike—grinning like a boy. Asked me to take a photo. Back to London soon. This will all fade…*
The last entry was dated 6th August. Between the pages, a torn note: *Michael, need to talk. Meet me at the usual place—11.*
Why hadn’t her mother given it to him? Daisy turned back a page.
*Michael leaves tomorrow. Tell him or not? James was over the moon when I told him I was pregnant. Maybe it’s his. God, let it be his.*
The entries stopped there.
*She cheated on Dad with Michael.* The secret her mother had hidden. *Dad adored me—called me his princess. How could she?*
“Daisy? Where are you?” James called from below.
“Here.” She waved from the hatch. “Coming down.” She looked at the diary. *Leave it? No—the new owners might find it.* She took it with her.
“What’s that?” James asked.
“Mum’s diary. Your face is covered in soot.”
“Opened the windows—house was boiling. Fancy a walk by the river?”
Daisy tucked the diary under a stack of papers on the sill, grabbed a towel, and followed him out.
James splashed water on his face, laughing. Daisy barely noticed, still lost in thought.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said at dinner. “What’s on your mind?”
“I read Mum’s diary. Not all of it, but enough.”
“Spicy family secret?” James grinned. “She poison someone?”
“Stop it.” She glared.Daisy watched the flames consume the diary, letting go of the past, and as she turned to James, she knew some secrets were meant to burn away.
