The Diary
After her father’s passing, Daisy and her husband decided to sell their cottage in the countryside. Daisy was expecting a child, and they needed the money to buy a larger flat in London.
It was a warm September afternoon. Daisy stared at the village and barely recognized it. In just a year, tall fences had sprung up, and where old shacks once stood, new houses with colourful roofs now gleamed. Only their home remained unchanged.
James parked their Land Rover by the porch. Daisy stepped out, stretching, the crisp country air making her head spin slightly. She unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The house felt shrunken, cramped somehow.
No one had lived there for a year. After her mother’s death, her father had visited alone. The plot was large, but he never planted anything—just wandered into the woods or went fishing. Even last year, when he was already ill, he’d insisted on coming. Said the air here healed him, made it easier to breathe.
They’d brought him back in early May. That was when Daisy realized how frail he’d become. He couldn’t live here alone. She’d talked him into returning to the city with them. A month later, he took to his bed, and by the end of September, he was gone.
She and James were city people—they wouldn’t visit often. Too far from London, and they preferred holidays by the seaside anyway. Left unattended, the house would crumble. It already looked neglected. Best to sell now while it was still sturdy. If they ever missed the quiet and fresh air, they’d buy something closer to town.
Tears welled in Daisy’s eyes at the flood of memories. The house had been passed down from her grandparents. First her mother had gone, then Granny and Grandpa, one after the other, and last year, her father.
She stood before a portrait of a young girl on the wall. James came in with a bag of their things, wrapped his arms around her from behind.
“Never seen this photo of you before. How old were you?” he asked, peering at the picture.
“That’s not me. It’s Mum. Sixteen or seventeen, still in school.”
“You look just like her. Thought it was you.” He tilted his head to catch her eye. “Grab the bucket—I’ll fetch water so you can brew tea.”
Daisy sniffled and headed to the kitchen, returning with a dented zinc pail.
“It was upside down on the shelf. Rinse it first. The pump’s two houses down,” she said, handing it to him.
“Yeah, I remember.” James stepped outside, the empty bucket clanking faintly.
Back in the kitchen, Daisy flicked on the electric hob, but nothing happened. “Fuse is out,” she muttered. It was tucked under the meter in the living room. She screwed it back in, touched the metal plate—warmth spread under her fingers.
She glanced around. She wouldn’t take much, maybe just Mum’s photo. Should ask the neighbours if they wanted any of the old things.
After tea, Daisy popped next door. Their homes weren’t divided by a tall fence.
“Selling, then?” asked Auntie Margaret.
Daisy nodded.
“I’ll have a look. Got enough junk myself, mind. Want me to tell the others?”
“Please,” Daisy said, relieved.
At home, James sorted through what they could burn. The fireplace needed tending—the house was damp. He got to work on the fire while Daisy climbed the creaking attic ladder, its rungs sagging under her weight.
“Want me to do it?” James called from below.
“No, I’m fine.”
She used to dread the attic. At night, footsteps would echo overhead—someone pacing above. Her father said it was just cats or the house settling after a hot day, but Daisy would still pull the covers over her head and wait for sleep.
Sunlight streamed through a small square window, dust motes dancing in its beam like tiny spirits.
“Nothing scary here,” Daisy murmured.
Shadows shrank back at her voice. She avoided the thick cobwebs strung between the rafters where Granny used to hang laundry on rainy days. One box held Christmas baubles. “Never knew Granny and Grandpa put up a tree,” she thought. She’d never spent winter here.
Another box was full of forgotten toys. A spinning wheel sat in the corner. Nothing worth taking. As she turned to leave, a corner of paper peeking from under a roof beam caught her eye.
She tugged it free—an old notebook, its yellowed pages stuck together from damp and time. Dates marked the entries. A diary. Her mother’s diary.
Reading others’ diaries felt wrong. Her mother had been gone for years, yet here were her thoughts, preserved on brittle paper. Then again, why keep a diary if not for someone to read it one day? Why hide it under the roof?
Daisy sat on an upturned bucket and skimmed the pages. Some entries were long, most just a few lines.
She flipped to a random page.
*21st June 1988. Simon 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. Taller than me by a head, at least. Felt so small beside him…*
*23rd June. He said I was beautiful, looked at me in a way that made my face burn. Can’t stop thinking about him…*
Daisy blinked. She’d known her mother as a mother, never as a girl in love with someone who wasn’t her father. Unease prickled. Did she have the right to read this? Would she want anyone digging through her thoughts? Yet she’d never kept a diary—always thought it a waste, scribbling things down just to cringe at them later. Then again, if her mother had secrets, why hide the diary instead of burning it?
Curiosity won. She read on, flipping past pages filled with stolen kisses and whispered promises.
*25th August. He’s gone. Don’t know how to go on. If I were a bird, I’d fly after him. Doubt he’ll come next summer. Off to uni. Is this really the end? I can’t bear it.*
So that was that. Poor Mum. She’d once told Daisy that without sorrow, people wouldn’t cherish joy. Now Daisy understood.
The next entry was seven years later. Mum must’ve left the diary here.
*6th July 1995. James talked me into visiting Dad. He’s started a new job, no holiday time. Didn’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 he still misses her. Funny, does a house age too? Feels smaller, stifling.*
Daisy frowned—she’d thought the same thing returning after so long.
*It’s me who’s changed. Saw Simon. He’s grown even taller. We nodded from afar, then I hurried inside. Spied him watching the windows through the curtains. Too late. I’m married, in love with my husband. Even if my heart skipped—no point lying.*
*7th July. He came to the river while I was washing clothes. Left straight away. Last thing we need is gossip. But the way he looked at me—wanted the ground to swallow me whole. Coward. Just ignore him.*
She turned the brittle pages. A dried flower crumbled when she tried to remove it. She blew the fragments away.
*15th July. What have I done? No excuses. I love my husband. How can I face him now?*
*16th July. James called—can’t visit this weekend, away for work. Good. Too ashamed to see him. One moment of weakness can’t ruin us. Wait—work on a Saturday? Is he seeing someone? Ha! Look who’s talking. His fault. Why send me here alone?*
*24th July. James is back. Missed him so much. Feel wretched… Simon’s everywhere I turn. God, why is this happening?*
*25th July. Dad and James went fishing. James caught a pike—grinning like a boy. Asked me to take a photo. One more week, then back to London. This will all fade…*
The last entry was dated 6th August. A torn note lay between the pages: *”Simon, need to talk. Meet me at the oak. Eleven.”*
What had Mum meant to say? Why tear it up? Had she returned to the village? Daisy knew she should stop—some secrets should stay buried. But the diary pulled her in.
She flipped back a page.
*Simon leaves tomorrow. Tell him or not? Let him go unknowing. James is over the moon about the baby—won’t let me lift a finger. Silly man. As if I didn’t haul water buckets before. Goodbye… (the next word was scribbled out so violently the pen tore the page). I won’t tell him. I love James. What happened was madness, a mistake. Maybe it’s James’s child after all? God, let it be so.*
The entries ended there. “Daisy closed the diary with a quiet sigh, realizing some answers were meant to stay lost in time, just like the fading echoes of footsteps on the attic floor.
