**The Diary**
After her father’s passing, Dasha and her husband decided to sell the old family cottage in the countryside. She was expecting a child, and they needed the money to buy a larger flat in town.
It was a mild September day as Dasha stood outside, surveying the village. It felt unfamiliar now—high fences had sprung up in place of crumbling old sheds, and new cottages with brightly coloured roofs dotted the landscape. Only their house remained unchanged.
Her husband, Stan, pulled up in their Land Rover and parked by the porch. Dasha stepped out, stretching in the crisp air, so fresh it made her lightheaded. She unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The house seemed smaller somehow, shrunken, as if time had pressed in on it.
No one had lived here for a year. After her mother’s death, her father had come alone, though he hadn’t tended the garden—just wandered the woods and gone fishing. Even last summer, ill as he was, he had insisted on coming. *”The air heals you here,”* he’d say.
They had brought him back in early May, but it was then Dasha saw how frail he’d become. He couldn’t stay out here alone. She persuaded him to return with them to the city, but by June, he took to his bed, and by September’s end, he was gone.
She and Stan were city folk through and through—this place was too far from their lives, too far from their usual seaside holidays. Without someone to tend it, the house would fall into ruin. Better to sell it now while it still stood strong and cared for. If they ever missed the quiet, the clean air, they could always buy somewhere closer.
A swell of memories brought tears to her eyes. This house had been passed down from her grandparents. First her mother had gone, then her grandparents one after another, and now her father.
She paused before a portrait of a young girl on the wall. Stan came in with a bag, slung an arm around her.
*”I’ve never seen this photo of you,”* he said. *”How old were you here?”*
*”That’s not me,”* she murmured. *”It’s Mum. Sixteen or seventeen, I think. Still in school.”*
*”You look just like her.”* He tilted his head, studying her face. *”Fetch the bucket—I’ll get water for tea.”*
Dasha sniffled and went to the kitchen, returning with a dented zinc pail. *”It was upside down on the shelf. Give it a rinse—the tap’s two houses down.”*
*”I remember,”* Stan said, clanking the empty bucket as he left.
Back in the kitchen, Dasha flicked the electric stove—nothing. *”Fuses,”* she muttered. They were on the shelf beneath the meter in the sitting room. She screwed them back in, pressed her palm to the hotplate—warmth spread under her fingers.
She glanced around. She wouldn’t take much—just her mother’s photograph. The rest could go to the neighbours if they wanted it.
After tea, she knocked next door. Their fence was low, hardly a barrier.
*”Selling, then?”* asked Auntie Margaret.
*”Yes,”* Dasha nodded.
*”I’ll have a look—though God knows I’ve enough clutter. Shall I tell the others?”*
*”Please,”* Dasha said, relieved.
Back home, Stan was sorting things to burn—they’d need the stove lit anyway, with the damp creeping in. He busied himself with kindling while Dasha climbed the creaking ladder to the attic.
*”Want me to go up?”* Stan called.
*”No, I’ll manage.”*
She’d been afraid of the attic as a girl—footsteps would echo overhead at night. *”Just the cats,”* her father would say, *”or the house settling.”* But she’d still burrow under the blankets, listening until she slept.
Sunlight slanted through the small square window, dust motes dancing in its beam.
*”Nothing frightening up here,”* she said aloud.
Shadows shrank at the sound of her voice. She stepped carefully around thick cobwebs strung between ropes—once her grandmother’s washing lines for rainy days. She opened a box—Christmas baubles inside. *”Gran and Grandad put up a tree?”* She’d never spent winter here.
Another box held toys she didn’t remember. A spinning wheel stood in the corner. Nothing worth keeping—until a corner of paper caught her eye, wedged beneath a loose board near the eaves.
She tugged it free—an old exercise book, pages yellowed and stuck with age. Dates marked the entries. A diary. Her mother’s.
It wasn’t right to read someone else’s private thoughts—but her mother had been gone so long. And diaries were meant to be read someday, weren’t they? Why else had she hidden it here?
Dasha sat on an upturned bucket and skimmed the pages. Some entries were long, detailed; most were brief.
She turned to a random page.
*21 June 1988. Stephen came back yesterday. He’s grown so handsome! Today we met by the river. He was already swimming when I arrived. He climbed out when he saw me—taller than me by a head at least. I felt so small beside him…*
*23 June. He told me I was pretty. The way he looked at me—it made my face burn. I can’t stop thinking about him…*
Dasha looked up. She’d known her mother as *Mum*, not as a girl in love with someone who wasn’t her father. It felt wrong to pry. Would she have wanted someone digging through her own private thoughts? Yet she’d never kept a diary—what was the point? Recording every fleeting feeling just to cringe at it years later? Ridiculous. If her mother had truly wanted secrecy, she should’ve burned the thing.
Curiosity won. She read on, skimming past pages filled with stolen kisses and whispered confessions.
*25 August. He’s gone, and I don’t know how to live without him. If I were a bird, I’d fly after him. He won’t be back next summer—off to university. Is this really the end? I can’t bear it.*
So that was that. Poor Mum. She’d once told Dasha that without sorrow, people wouldn’t appreciate joy. Now Dasha understood.
The next entry was seven years later—her mother must’ve left the diary here.
*6 July 1995. Stan talked me into visiting Dad in the village. He’s just started a new job—no time off. Doesn’t want me stuck in the city heat. Dad was so pleased. Baked a pie yesterday—almost as good as Mum’s. He’s holding up, though he still misses her terribly. Funny, the house seems smaller now. Has it aged, or have I?*
Dasha blinked—she’d thought the very same thing.
*I’ve changed, not the house. It feels cramped now. Saw Stephen. He’s broader. We nodded from a distance—I hurried inside. From behind the curtains, I saw him look toward the windows. Too late now. I’m married, and I love my husband. Though my heart did skip—no point lying…*
*7 July. He came to the river while I was rinsing laundry. I left quickly—what if someone saw us together? But the way he looked at me… I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. Coward. I’ll just avoid him.*
She turned the brittle pages. A dried flower crumbled when she touched it. She blew the fragments away.
*15 July. What have I done? There’s no excuse. I love my husband. How can I face him after this?…*
*16 July. Oliver phoned—he can’t come this weekend, called away on business. Just as well. I’m terrified I’ll give myself away. I won’t wreck everything over a moment’s weakness. Though—business on a weekend? Maybe he’s got someone too. Hypocrite—here I am, guilty as sin, and I’m jealous! His fault. Why did he send me here alone?…*
*24 July. Oliver’s here. I’ve missed him so much. I’m wretched… Stephen’s impossible to avoid. Every time I step outside, there he is. God, why is this happening?…*
*25 July. Oliver and Dad went fishing. Oliver caught a pike—grinning like a boy. Made me take his photo with it. One more week ’til we go home. Back to the city, back to forgetting…*
The final entry was dated 6 August. A torn note lay between the pages: *”Stephen, I need to talk. Meet me at the old spot—11 o’clock.”*
What had she meant to tell him? Why tear the note and never send it? Had she come back another summer? Dasha knew she should stop—some secrets were better left buried. But the diary held her fast. She turned back a page.
*Stephen leaves tomorrow.She shut the diary gently, the weight of her mother’s unspoken regrets settling in her heart, but as she looked out at the village bathed in golden evening light, she realized some stories were never meant to have clear endings.
