I FOUND MY SISTER’S DIARY IN THE ATTIC — IT WASN’T HERS
I was halfway through the first page when my hands started shaking, the yellowed paper crinkling under my grip. The handwriting was familiar, but it wasn’t hers — it was Mom’s.
“You weren’t supposed to find that,” my sister said from the doorway, her voice cold. I hadn’t even heard her come up the stairs. The attic smelled like dust and old wood, and the single bulb above us flickered, casting shadows on her face. I held up the diary, my throat tight. “What is this? Why does Mom’s name keep coming up?”
She stepped closer, her eyes darting to the box I’d pulled it from. “You think you’re ready to know?” she snapped, her voice rising. “You think you can handle it?” The air felt heavy, like the house itself was holding its breath.
I flipped to the last page, and there it was — a photo of Mom holding a baby. But the date on the back was two years before I was born.
Then the front door slammed, and Mom’s voice called up the stairs, “Girls, I’m home early.”
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*The sound of Mom’s voice shattered the tension, but didn’t diffuse it. If anything, it amplified it, adding a layer of immediate panic. My sister’s face went white, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fury. She lunged towards me, snatching at the diary.
“Give it to me!” she hissed, her nails scraping my skin.
I instinctively pulled it away, tucking it behind my back. “No! Not until you tell me what’s going on!”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, getting closer. We froze, two figures caught in the flickering light, dust motes dancing around us. Mom’s head appeared at the top of the stairs, her brow furrowed in concern. “What are you two doing up here? I thought I heard yelling.” Her gaze swept over us, landing on the dust-covered box, then on the diary clutched in my hand. Her eyes widened slightly, and a flicker of something unreadable crossed her face before she masked it with a gentle smile. “What have you found, sweetie?”
My sister Marissa opened her mouth, but I cut her off. “Nothing, Mom. Just… looking through old stuff.” My voice trembled despite my effort to sound casual.
Mom stepped fully into the attic. The single bulb seemed to dim further in her presence. “Oh? Anything interesting?” Her eyes were fixed on the diary. “That old thing… I haven’t seen that in years.”
Marissa shot me a look that promised pain later, but remained silent, her body rigid.
I couldn’t hold back anymore. The photo, the date, the familiar handwriting that wasn’t supposed to be Mom’s *diary* but clearly was, it all felt like a foundation crumbling beneath me. I held up the book, my voice barely above a whisper. “Mom… whose diary is this? And who is this baby?” I flipped back to the photo page, showing it to her.
Mom’s gaze softened as she looked at the picture. She sighed, a deep, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of years. She walked over to the small, dusty window and looked out, silent for a long moment. Marissa stood rigid, watching her, a silent plea in her eyes.
Finally, Mom turned back to us, her expression calm but sad. “Come downstairs, girls. Let’s talk properly.”
We descended the stairs in silence, the diary still in my hands. We sat at the kitchen table, the afternoon sun streaming in. Mom poured herself a glass of water, her hands steady.
“That diary,” she began, her voice low, “was written by your Aunt Sarah.”
My Aunt Sarah. Mom’s younger sister. I barely remembered her; she had passed away when I was very young.
“Sarah was diagnosed with a serious illness when she was only in her early twenties,” Mom continued. “She couldn’t have children. It was her greatest sorrow.” She paused, her eyes misting over slightly. “She desperately wanted to be a mother. This diary… she started writing it as if she *was* pregnant, chronicling the journey, her hopes, her dreams for the child she would never have.”
She reached out and gently touched the photo in my hand. “That baby… was you.”
My breath hitched. Me? But the date…
“Sarah passed away not long after that photo was taken,” Mom explained, her voice catching. “She held you, once. Just a few weeks before… she went into hospice. That picture was taken by the nurse. It was the only one she ever had with you.”
She looked from the photo to my face, then to Marissa’s. “After she died, I found the diary. It was so full of her hopes, her love… I couldn’t bear to let go of it. It felt like a piece of her, and a piece of the future she imagined for you.” She looked at Marissa. “I kept it hidden. And when you found it, Marissa, years ago… you understood. You knew how fragile it was, how much it meant. You kept it safe for me. You knew I wasn’t ready to share it yet.”
Marissa finally spoke, her voice quiet. “She wanted to protect you. I wanted to protect you, too.” She looked at me, the anger gone, replaced by a familiar, protective tenderness. “You’ve always been Mom’s little shadow. I just… I didn’t want you to find out about Aunt Sarah’s diary like that. It’s a sad story, but it’s also full of love. Her love for a child she dreamed of, and our love for her.”
I looked at the photo again, seeing it through new eyes. It wasn’t just a picture of Mom with a baby; it was a picture of a woman, my mother, holding her newborn daughter, a precious link to her beloved sister and the dreams that sister carried. The shaking stopped. The air felt lighter. It wasn’t a secret of betrayal or hidden identity, but a secret of grief, love, and memory, carefully guarded.
I closed the diary gently. It wasn’t my sister’s, but it belonged to both of us, a legacy of a love that transcended loss. I looked at Mom, at Marissa, a silent understanding passing between us. The attic’s dust and shadows held not a shocking revelation, but a quiet, tender history of our family.