I FOUND A SMALL WOODEN DIARY WITH HIS NAME ON IT IN THE ATTIC
My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped the dusty box from the attic stairs. The air up there felt thick and still, heavy with the musty scent of old paper and forgotten things clinging to everything. Inside the box, under brittle piles of long-unused fabric, was a small wooden diary, locked shut and almost completely hidden away. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, echoing drum in the quiet, dusty space. I almost didn’t open it.
I broke the fragile latch with a screwdriver I found nearby, the dry wood splintering loudly in the sudden silence of the attic. The pages inside were filled with tight, looping script covering every inch, with dates from years before I was even born. Names I didn’t recognize at first, then one specific name jumped out like a punch to the gut: His name.
I read frantically in the dim light filtering through the attic window, sweat beading on my forehead, the cheap paper scratching against my fingertips. Entry after entry detailed years of secret meetings, hushed conversations, whispered promises. “How could you do this?” I screamed, the diary falling from my numb fingers to the dusty floorboards below. It wasn’t just an affair; it was a calculated lie spanning decades.
My whole reality tilted violently on its axis. The woman I thought I knew, the life I thought we had… it was all built on something dark hidden up here.
Then I saw the final entry: “He said his wife suspects everything now.”
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*The blood drained from my face, leaving me cold and trembling. “Suspects everything…” The words echoed in my mind. This wasn’t just about an affair, it was about my mother. He was writing about my mother, about *their* marriage.
I scrambled for the diary, my fingers clumsy as I flipped back through the brittle pages. I was searching for something, anything, that would explain, that would soften the blow. But the entries were relentless, painting a picture of deception and betrayal that chilled me to the bone. He described her, my mother, with dismissive words, pitying her innocence, ridiculing her trust. He called her “the anchor” and “the obligation,” while the other woman was “the spark” and “the freedom.”
Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the already faded ink. My hands tightened on the diary, crushing the aged wood. I wanted to burn it, to destroy it, to erase this ugly truth from existence. But I knew I couldn’t. This diary, this ugly little book, held a truth that had been buried for far too long.
Slowly, a different kind of anger began to simmer within me. Not the raw, explosive rage of betrayal, but a cold, hard anger born of injustice. My mother deserved to know. She deserved to understand why her life, why our lives, had been shaped by this lie.
I carefully closed the diary, the splintered latch no longer holding it shut. I descended the attic stairs, my legs shaky but my resolve hardening with each step. The house felt different now, tainted by the secret I carried.
I found her in the garden, tending to her roses, her hands gentle and sure among the thorns. She looked up as I approached, her smile warm and familiar.
“What did you find up there, dear?” she asked, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
I held out the diary, my hand trembling slightly. “I found this,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “It’s about him. About… everything.”
Her smile faltered, her eyes clouding with a sudden, unspoken fear. She reached for the diary, her fingers brushing mine. I squeezed her hand tightly, a silent promise of support.
“I’m here,” I said. “Whatever’s in there, I’m here.”
She nodded, her gaze fixed on the wooden cover. With a deep breath, she opened the diary. And as she began to read, under the warm afternoon sun, I stood beside her, ready to face the truth together, ready to help her rebuild, to heal, and to finally find her own freedom. The past had cast a long shadow, but the future was still ours to write.