**The Diary**
After her father’s passing, Emily and her husband, James, decided to sell their countryside house in Dorset. Emily was expecting, and they needed the money to buy a bigger flat in London.
It was a warm September afternoon. Emily gazed at the village, barely recognizing it. In just a year, tall fences had sprung up, and crumbling cottages had been replaced by freshly painted homes with slate roofs. Only their house remained unchanged.
James parked the Land Rover by the front steps. Emily stepped out, stretching as the crisp country air made her head spin. She unlocked the door, stepping inside. The house felt smaller somehow, as if it had shrunk in their absence.
A year had passed since anyone last lived there. After her mother’s death, her father had come alone—walking through the large garden, fishing in the nearby river. Even when he was ill, he had insisted on returning. “The air here heals,” he’d say, his voice weak but determined.
They had brought him back that May, and it was then Emily realized how frail he’d become. He couldn’t stay here alone. She convinced him to return with them to the city. A month later, he was bedridden. By September’s end, he was gone.
They were city people, really. The village was too far, and holidays were always spent by the sea. Without care, the house would crumble. It already looked abandoned. Best to sell while it was still sturdy, she thought. If, years from now, they longed for quiet or fresh air, they could buy a cottage nearer to town.
Tears welled in Emily’s eyes as memories crashed over her. The house had been left by her grandparents. First, her mother had gone, then, one by one, her grandparents. And last year, her father.
She stood before a portrait of a young girl on the wall. James carried in a bag, slipping his arms around her from behind.
“Never seen this one before,” he murmured. “How old were you here?”
“That’s not me. It’s Mum. Sixteen, I think. Still in school.”
“You look just like her.” He studied her face. “Get the bucket. I’ll fetch water for tea.”
Emily sniffled and went to the kitchen, returning with a galvanized pail.
“It was upside down. Rinse it first. The pump’s two houses down,” she said.
“I remember.” James left, the empty bucket creaking in his grip.
Back in the kitchen, Emily flicked the electric stove—nothing. The fuses must have been removed. She found them under the meter, screwed them back in, and touched the heating disc.
She glanced around. She wouldn’t take anything—except her mother’s photo. She’d ask the neighbors if they wanted the rest.
After tea, she visited Mrs. Hargrove next door. Their homes stood close, no tall fences between them.
“Selling, then?” Mrs. Hargrove asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll have a look. Got enough clutter myself, but I’ll spread the word.”
Emily returned home. James was sorting kindling—they’d need the fireplace tonight. The house was damp. While he tended to the fire, Emily climbed the rickety attic ladder.
“Want me to go up?” James called.
“No, I’ll manage.”
As a child, she’d feared the attic. Footsteps had echoed overhead at night. Her father had blamed it on cats or the house settling, but she’d buried herself under blankets anyway.
Sunlight streamed through the small square window, dust particles dancing in its beam.
“Nothing scary here,” she murmured.
Shadows seemed to recoil at her voice. She avoided the thick cobwebs, remnants of her grandmother’s laundry lines. Opening an old box, she found Christmas decorations—her grandparents had put up a tree, something she’d never witnessed.
Another box held forgotten toys. In the far corner stood a spinning wheel. Nothing useful.
As she turned to leave, a corner of paper caught her eye—wedged beneath a loose floorboard near the roof. She tugged it free: a yellowed notebook, its pages stiff with age. A diary. Her mother’s.
It felt wrong to read it. Her mother had been gone for years, but her private thoughts remained. Yet, why keep a diary if not for someone to find one day? Why hide it so well?
She sat on an upturned bucket and skimmed. Some entries were long, others just a few lines.
**21.06.1988**
Daniel came yesterday. So handsome now. Today, we met by the river. He was already swimming when I arrived. Saw me, climbed out—taller than me by a head. Felt small beside him…
**23.06.**
He said I was beautiful. The way he looked at me—my skin burned. I can’t stop thinking of him…
Emily’s chest tightened. She knew her mother only as *Mother*—not as a girl in love with someone who wasn’t her father. Did she have the right to pry? Yet, if it was meant to stay secret, why not burn it?
Curiosity won. She flipped ahead, pages sticking together.
**25.08.**
He’s gone. I don’t know how to live without him. If I were a bird, I’d fly after him. He’s starting university—will I ever see him again?
A sad ending. Poor Mum. She’d once told Emily that joy meant little without sorrow. Now she understood.
The next entry was seven years later—July 1995.
**06.07.**
James insisted I visit Dad in Dorset. His new job means no holiday. Didn’t want me stuck in the city. Dad was glad. Made a pie yesterday—almost like Mum’s. He’s aged. So has the house. Or is it just me?
**07.07.**
Saw Daniel. We nodded—I hurried inside. Watched him from the window. He stared back. That ship has sailed. I’m married. I love James. (Though my heart raced—I won’t lie.)
Emily turned the brittle pages. A dried flower crumbled at her touch.
**15.07.**
What have I done? No excuses. I love James. How can I face him?
**16.07.**
James called—away on business this weekend. Good. I can’t look at him. One moment of weakness could ruin us. (Business on a weekend? Does *he* have someone?)
**24.07.**
James is back. Missed him terribly. Feel wretched… Daniel’s unavoidable here. God, why?
**25.07.**
James and Dad went fishing. He caught a pike—so proud. Photographed it. One more week, then home. I’ll forget this.
The last entry—August 6th—held a torn note: *Daniel, need to talk. Meet at our spot, 11.*
What had her mother wanted to say? Why tear it? Did she return to Dorset after this? Emily knew she should stop—but the diary pulled her in.
**05.08.**
Daniel leaves tomorrow. Tell him or not? James was so happy about the baby—won’t even let me carry water. Fool. (But what if it’s *not* his?) God, let it be James’s.
The rest was scratched out, the paper torn.
Emily’s hands trembled. Had her mother cheated? Her father had adored her—called her his princess. And everyone thought they were the perfect couple…
“Em, where are you?” James called.
“Here!” She waved from the attic hatch. “Coming down.”
She hesitated. Should she leave the diary? No—new owners might find it. She carried it down.
“What’s that?” James asked.
“Mum’s diary. You’ve got soot on your face.”
“Opened the windows—it’s stifling. Fancy a walk by the river?”
Emily tucked the diary under yellowed newspapers by the window, grabbed a towel, and followed.
At dinner, James noticed her distraction.
“Spill. What’s in the diary? A murder? A cursed cow?”
“James!”
“Seriously, what’s got you like this?” He pointed at the stove—where she’d absentmindedly left bread.
She sighed. “Mum wrote about… another man. And me. She wasn’t sure if Dad…”
“Wait—you think your dad *isn’t* your dad?”
Emily’s voice broke. “Maybe.”
“Did it say that outright?”
“She didn’t even know.” Emily wiped her cheeks. “She loved Daniel as a girl. Then years later, they… But she loved Dad. I *know* she did. That’s why I fell for you—you’re like him.”
James exhaled. “Even if it’s true, your dad *was* your dad. He raised you. People make mistakes.”
“You’d forgive cheating *that* easily?”
“Would you?” James countered.
Emily faltered.
“Give me the diary,” he said.
“Why?”
“I’ll burn it. No proof, no doubts. Thomas *is*James tossed the diary into the flames, watching the pages curl into ash, and as the last ember flickered out, Emily finally let go of the past, knowing some truths were better left unanswered.
