The Diary
After her father’s death, Daisy and her husband decided to sell their countryside cottage in the Cotswolds. Daisy was expecting a baby—they needed the money for a larger flat in London.
It was a warm September afternoon. Daisy gazed out at the village and barely recognized it. Over the past year, towering fences had sprung up, and where crumbling old cottages once stood, new houses with slate roofs now gleamed. Only their home remained unchanged.
Tom parked the Land Rover by the front porch. Daisy stepped out and stretched, dizzy for a moment from the crisp air. She unlocked the front door and stepped inside—the house felt smaller somehow, tighter, as if it had shrunk in their absence.
A full year had passed since anyone lived here. After her mother’s passing, her father had come alone. The garden was overgrown now—he hadn’t tended to it, preferring long walks through the woods or fishing by the river. Even last summer, when he was already ill, he’d insisted on returning, claiming the air here healed him.
They’d brought him back in early May, and that was when Daisy realized how frail he’d become. He couldn’t live here alone. 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 wouldn’t visit often—it was too far, and they preferred holidays by the sea. Left unattended, the cottage would crumble. It already looked neglected. Better to sell it now, while it was still sturdy. If nostalgia ever struck, they could buy somewhere closer.
Tears welled in Daisy’s eyes at the weight of memories. The house had been her grandparents’, left to her parents when they passed—first her mother, then, one by one, her grandparents, and finally, last year, her father.
She stood before an old portrait of a young girl on the wall. Tom walked in with their bags and slipped his arms around her.
“Never seen this photo before,” he murmured. “How old were you here?”
“That’s not me. It’s Mum. Sixteen or seventeen, I think—still in school.”
“You look just like her.” He turned her face toward him. “Grab the bucket, yeah? I’ll fetch water from the well, and you can put the kettle on.”
Daisy sniffed and went to the kitchen, returning with a galvanized bucket.
“It was upside-down on the shelf. Give it a rinse. The pump’s two houses down,” she said, handing it over.
“I remember.” Tom stepped outside, the empty bucket creaking in his grip.
Back in the kitchen, Daisy flicked the electric hob—nothing. The fuses had been pulled. She found them under the meter in the living room, screwed them back in. The metal disc warmed under her palm.
She glanced around. She wouldn’t take anything from here—except maybe her mother’s photograph. Perhaps the neighbors would want some of the old things.
After tea, Daisy knocked next door. No tall fence separated the houses.
“Selling, then?” asked Auntie Margaret.
Daisy nodded.
“I’ll pop round later—though God knows I’ve enough clutter myself. Shall I tell the others?”
“Please,” Daisy said, relieved.
Returning home, she found Tom sorting through junk for the burner. The house was damp—he’d already gotten the hearth going. While he fed the fire, Daisy climbed the rickety ladder to the attic.
“Need help?” Tom called from below.
“No, I’m fine.”
As a child, she’d hated the attic—convinced footsteps crept overhead at night. Her father had brushed it off: old houses settle, cats prowl. Still, she’d buried herself under the blankets until sleep took her.
Now, sunlight streamed through a small square window, dust motes dancing in its beam.
“Nothing scary up here,” she said aloud.
Shadows seemed to flinch at her voice. She sidestepped thick cobwebs strung between the rafters, remnants of rainy-day laundry lines. One box held Christmas baubles—her grandparents had decorated, then. She’d never spent winter here.
Another box was filled with toys she didn’t recognize. In the corner stood an old spinning wheel. Nothing worth keeping. As she turned to leave, a corner of paper caught her eye—tucked beneath a loose floorboard near the eaves.
She pulled it free: a yellowed notebook, pages glued by time and damp. Dates marked entries. A diary. Her mother’s.
It felt wrong to read it. Her mother had been gone for years—her private thoughts weren’t meant for anyone. But then, why keep a diary at all? Maybe some part of her *had* wanted it found. Why else hide it so carefully?
Daisy sat on an upturned pail and flipped through—just skimming. Some entries were detailed, most just a few lines. She stopped at random.
*21.06.1988*
*James came back yesterday. So handsome now. Met him by the river today—he was already swimming when I arrived. Climbed out when he saw me. Taller than me by a head at least. Felt small beside him…*
*23.06.*
*He said I was beautiful. The way he looked at me—I couldn’t breathe. Can’t stop thinking about him…*
Daisy jerked her eyes away. She knew her mother as *Mum*—not this lovestruck girl pining for someone who wasn’t her father. Guilt gnawed at her. Did she have the right? Would *she* want someone rifling through her secrets? But she’d never kept a diary—pointless, she’d always thought. Scribbling every whim just to cringe at it later? Ridiculous. If her mother had truly wanted it hidden, she should’ve burned it.
Curiosity won. She read on, rushing past entries about stolen kisses and whispered confessions.
*25.08.*
*He’s gone. Don’t know how to breathe without him. If I were a bird, I’d fly after him. Doubt he’ll return next summer—university soon. Is this really the end? I can’t bear it.*
So that was that. Poor Mum. She’d once told Daisy that without sorrow, joy meant nothing. Now Daisy understood.
The next entry was dated seven years later—her mother must’ve left the diary here.
*06.07.1995*
*Tom talked me into coming to Dad’s. He’s started a new job—no holidays this year. Doesn’t want me stuck in the city. Dad was thrilled. Baked a pie yesterday—almost as good as Mum’s. He’s holding up, though her loss still weighs on him. Funny—has the house gotten smaller, or have I outgrown it?*
Daisy startled at the echo of her own thoughts.
*Saw James today. Older, broader. We said hello from a distance—I hurried inside. Watched from the curtains as he lingered. Too late now. I’m married. I love my husband. (Though my traitor heart still raced.)*
*07.07.*
*He came to the river while I was rinsing linens. I left fast—last thing we need is gossip. But the way he looked at me… Wished the earth would swallow me whole. Coward. Best pretend he doesn’t exist.*
She flipped past stuck-together pages. A pressed flower crumbled when she touched it. She blew the fragments away.
*15.07.*
*What have I done? No excuses. I love my husband. How can I face him?*
*16.07.*
*Tom called—away on business this weekend. Just as well. Too afraid I’ll give myself away. One stupid mistake can’t wreck us. (Business trip on a weekend? Maybe he’s got secrets too. Hypocrite—here I am, guilty as sin, but still jealous. His fault. Why send me here alone?)*
*24.07.*
*Tom’s back. Missed him so much it hurts. Feel wretched… Hard to avoid James—every time I step outside, he’s there. God, why punish me like this?*
*25.07.*
*Tom and Dad went fishing. Tom caught a pike—grinning like a boy. Made me take a photo. One more week, then back to London. Put all this behind me…*
The final entry was from August 6th. Between the pages, a torn note: *”James, need to talk. Meet me at the oak tree. 11 p.m.”*
What had her mother meant to say? Why tear it up? Had she ever returned here? Daisy knew she should stop—some secrets weren’t hers to uncover. But the diary held her fast. She turned back a page.
*”James leaves tomorrow. Tell him or not? Let it die. Tom’s over the moon about the baby—won’t let me lift a finger. Fool. As if I couldn’t haul water before… Goodbye—”* (the next word was scratched out, the paper torn) *”—I won’t tell him. I love Tom. What happenedShe watched the flames consume the diary, its secrets turning to ash, and for the first time in days, she felt the weight of the past finally release her.
