**Diary Entry**
After my father’s passing, Emily and her husband decided to sell the house in the countryside. She was expecting a baby, and they needed the money to buy a bigger flat in town.
It was a warm September day. Emily looked around the village and barely recognised it. In just a year, tall fences had sprung up, and where ramshackle old cottages once stood, there were now new houses with colourful roofs. Only their place remained unchanged.
Drew pulled up their Land Rover by the front porch. Emily stepped out, stretching, the crisp air making her head spin. She unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The house seemed smaller somehow, shrunken.
No one had lived here for a year—after Mum’s death, Dad had come alone, though he didn’t tend the garden much. He’d preferred wandering the woods or fishing. Even last year, when he was already ill, he’d insisted on coming. Said the air here healed him.
They’d brought him back at the start of May. That’s when Emily realised just how much he’d declined. He couldn’t live here alone, so she persuaded him to return to the city with them. A month later, he took to his bed, and by September’s end, he was gone.
Emily and Drew were city folk through and through. The village was too far from London, and they always spent their holidays by the seaside anyway. Without regular care, the house would fall to ruin—it already looked neglected. Better to sell while it was still sturdy. If they ever missed the quiet and fresh air, they could buy a place closer to town.
Tears welled in Emily’s eyes as memories flooded back. The house had been her grandparents’ first. Then her mother had gone, followed by her grandparents, and now Dad.
She stood before a portrait of a young girl on the wall. Drew brought in a bag of supplies, wrapping his arms around her from behind.
“Never seen this photo of you. How old were you here?” he asked, glancing at the picture.
“That’s not me—it’s Mum. Sixteen or seventeen, I think, still in school.”
“You look just like her.” He studied her face. “Grab the bucket. I’ll fetch water, and you can boil some for tea.”
Emily sniffled and headed for the kitchen, returning with a zinc pail.
“It was upside down on the shelf. Give it a rinse. The tap’s two houses down,” she said, handing it over.
“I remember,” Drew muttered, stepping outside with the empty bucket clanking.
Back in the kitchen, Emily flicked the electric hob on, but nothing happened. “Fuse is out,” she muttered. She found the spares under the meter in the front room, twisted them back in, and touched the hob’s surface—warm already.
She glanced around. She wouldn’t take much—maybe just Mum’s photo. Perhaps the neighbours would want some of the old things.
After tea, she popped next door. Their garden wasn’t fenced off.
“Selling up?” asked Auntie Margaret.
“Yes,” Emily nodded.
“I’ll come over, have a look. Got enough clutter myself, but I’ll spread the word.”
“Thanks,” Emily said, relieved.
At home, Drew was sorting what to burn. The wood stove needed kindling, and the house was damp. While he stacked paper, Emily climbed the creaky loft ladder.
“Should I do it?” he called.
“No, I’ll manage.”
Years ago, she’d been afraid of the loft. At night, she’d hear footsteps above—Dad said it was just cats or the house settling, but she’d still burrow under the blankets.
Sunlight seeped through a small square window, dust motes dancing in its rays.
“Nothing scary here,” she murmured.
Spiderwebs draped between the rafters where Nan had once hung laundry in bad weather. Emily opened a box—old Christmas baubles. “Nan and Grandad really went all out,” she thought. She’d never spent winter here.
Another box held toys she didn’t recognise. In the corner stood an old spinning wheel. Nothing useful. As she turned to leave, a corner of paper caught her eye, wedged under a loose board.
She tugged it free—an old notebook, its pages yellowed and stuck together. Dates scribbled in the margins. A diary.
Reading someone else’s diary felt wrong. Mum had been gone for years, yet her thoughts remained. But then again, why keep a diary if not for someone to find it? Why had Mum hidden it up here?
Emily perched on an upturned bucket and skimmed through. Some entries were long, others just a few sentences. She flipped to a random page.
*21.06.1988*
*James came back yesterday. He’s so handsome now. Today we met by the river. He was already swimming when I got there. Saw me, climbed out—towered over me by a head. I felt so small next to him…*
*23.06.1988*
*He said I was beautiful, looked at me in a way that made my face burn. Can’t stop thinking about him…*
Emily looked up. She’d known Mum as *Mum*, not as a girl swooning over some lad—certainly not over someone other than Dad. Guilt prickled. Did she have the right to read this? Would she want someone prying into her own private thoughts? Then again, if Mum had wanted it hidden, she should’ve burned it.
Curiosity won. She read on, flipping past pages filled with stolen kisses and love-struck confessions.
*25.08.1988*
*He’s gone, and I don’t know how to live. If I were a bird, I’d fly after him. Doubt he’ll come back next summer—university, a new life. Is this really it? I can’t bear it.*
Emily exhaled. Poor Mum. She’d once told Emily that without sorrow, joy wouldn’t mean as much. Now she understood.
The next entry was dated seven years later.
*06.07.1995*
*Drew convinced me to visit Dad in the village. He’s starting a new job, no holiday time. Doesn’t want me stuck in the city. Dad was thrilled. Baked a pie yesterday—almost as good as Nan’s. He’s holding up, though he still misses her. Funny—the house feels smaller. Or is it me?*
Emily paused. She’d thought the same thing.
*Saw James. All grown up. We nodded from a distance, and I hurried inside. Later, I caught him staring at the house. Too late now—I’m married, I love my husband. Though I’ll admit, my heart skipped.*
*07.07.1995*
*He came to the river while I was rinsing laundry. I left straight away. Last thing we need is gossip. But the way he looked at me… I wanted the ground to swallow me. Coward. I’ll just ignore him.*
Emily turned the brittle pages. A dried flower crumbled when she touched it.
*15.07.1995*
*What have I done? No excuses. I love Drew. How can I face him after this?*
*16.07.1995*
*Drew called—can’t come this weekend, some work trip. Fine by me. I’m terrified he’ll see right through me. One stupid mistake could ruin everything. Wait—a “work trip” on a weekend? Is he lying too? Hypocrite. But he shouldn’t have sent me here alone.*
*24.07.1995*
*Drew’s here. Missed him so much. Feel like filth… James is everywhere I go. God, why?*
*25.07.1995*
*Dad and Drew went fishing. Drew caught a pike—grinning like a kid. Made me take a photo. One more week, then back to the city. I’ll forget this ever happened.*
The last entry, dated *06.08.1995*, had a torn note tucked inside: *James, need to talk. Meet me at the usual spot, 11.*
What had Mum wanted to say? Why tear it? Did she ever come back? Emily knew she should stop—some secrets were better left buried. Yet the diary pulled her in.
She flipped back a page.
*James leaves tomorrow. Should I tell him? No. Drew’s over the moon about the baby—won’t even let me lift a finger. Sweet idiot. Like I’ve never hauled water before… Goodbye—* [scribbled out, the pen tearing the paper.]
*I won’t tell him. I love Drew. What happened was madness, a mistake. Maybe the baby’s his? Please, God, let it be so.*
The entries ended there.
“Mum cheated on Dad with James,” Emily whispered. *This* was the secret. Dad had adored her, called her his princess. And all along…
“Emily? Where are you?” Drew called from below.
“Up here.” She waved from the loft opening. “Coming downWith the diary’s ashes scattered like the petals of that long-dead flower, Emily closed her eyes and let the wind carry the past away for good.
