**Diary Entry 28th April**
For fifty years, I feared becoming a widow. Only after his death, sorting through his things, did I realise I had spent my life with a stranger.
“Mum, maybe thats enough for today?” Emily wrinkled her nose, lingering in the doorway of Fathers bedroom. “You smell of mothballs and the past.”
Margaret Fairfax barely glanced up. With ritual precision, she folded his shirts into a cardboard box, one by one, collar to collar.
“I just want to finish this wardrobe.”
“Youve been finishing it for a week. He was a good man, Mum. Quiet, steady, kind. But hes gone. These are just things.”
Margaret froze, clutching his favourite cable-knit jumper. Good. Quiet. Steady. The words felt like nails hammered into the coffin of their marriage. Fifty years of suffocating silence.
It wasnt his death she had feared. It was this emptiness afterwardthe hollowness seeping from the cracks of the old wardrobe, thick as dust in her lungs.
“Ill manage, Emily. Go. Your husbands waiting. Dont let him eat alone.”
Her daughter sighed but didnt argue. Alone, Margaret gripped the wardrobe door with unexpected fury. It groaned open.
She needed to clean behind it. Leonard had been fastidious about tidinessanother of his quiet, steadfast quirks. She heaved against the stubborn wood until it scraped across the oak floor, revealing a thin, deliberate line beneath faded wallpaper. Not a crack. Something else.
Her finger traced it. The paper gave way, exposing a small recessed door. Her heart lurched.
Inside, pressed together like secrets, lay several thick cloth-bound notebooks. Diaries.
*Leonard? Diaries?* The man who answered “Fine. Had supper?” when she pried about his day?
She opened one at random. His angular script.
*14th March. Saw Mrs. Whittaker from number three at the shops today, crying againpension delayed, couldnt afford her medicine. Told Margaret I was off for a walk, then slipped to the chemist and left a bag by her door. Told the pharmacist it was a gift from an old friend. Mustnt let Margaret know. Shed say we can barely make ends meet. Shes right, of course. But how could I not help?*
She remembered that day. Leonard had returned distant, refusing dinner. Shed assumed his usual withdrawal. Now, she feverishly turned pages.
*2nd May. The Harris boys got mixed up with a bad lot again. Crashed his motorbike. His father nearly thrashed him. Gave him money from the fridge fund tonightsaid it was repayment for his grandfathers kindness. Good lad, just foolish. Margaret wouldnt understand. She thinks others troubles arent ours. She guards our home. But I I cant live in a fortress while others walls crumble.*
*The fridge fund.* Their savings, vanished overnight. Leonard had claimed hed lost it. Shed almost believed he drank it away.
She sat amidst dust and revelations, each line exposing a man shed never known. A man whod lived beside her, shared her bed, yet whose true life unfolded in parallelhidden behind silence.
Emily returned hours later, snapping on the light. “Mum, youre still here? I brought milk.” Her gaze fell on the diaries. “Whats this junk?”
“Its not junk. Its your fathers.”
Emily skimmed a page. “*Notes on rose pruning*? Seriously? Dad hated gardening.”
“He pretended.” Margarets voice was steel.
*12th April. Bought Margaret a Blue Moon rose today. Said it was change from the shops. Spent three lunch hours hunting it. When she smiles, Id buy every market stall bare. Mustnt let her guess. Shed say Im daft.*
Emily scoffed. “Mum, stop. He wasnt some poet. He was just Dad. Decent. Boring.”
*Decent. Boring.* The words struck like a slap. Margaret opened another diarythis one in a womans elegant hand. *For my Len. Remembering our talks.*
Emily paled. “A mistress? I *told* you not to rifle through his things!”
Margaret read aloud:
*20th January. Len brought me books today. Said theyd distract me from the pain. Hes the only one who still sees me, not my illness. We spoke of constellations. He knows them all. Whod have thought?*
Not a mistress. A dying woman hed comfortedwhile Margaret mocked his stargazing as frivolous.
*16th June. Len told me Margaret laughed at Mr. Clarke for spending his bonus on a telescope. Called him a grown man wasting money on nonsense. That night, Len burned his poetry. Said his soil couldnt nurture such seeds. I ache for him. Shell never know what shes burned.*
She remembered that evening. Leonard staring silently at the sky. Shed thought him moody. Hed been mourning.
Emily faltered as Margaret read morehow hed taken double shifts to fund her school trip to Edinburgh (“*Mustnt let Emily know. Let her believe in miracles*”), how hed quietly paid the Harris boys repairs.
“You thought he drank that month,” Margaret said coldly. “We *both* did. Easier than admitting he was ten times the man we imagined.”
Emily wept. The father shed mourned never existed.
Margaret placed the diaries on his nightstand. Not goodbye. Introduction.
**Epilogue**
Six months later, the flat smelled of soil and roses. Leonards jumper draped her chair. His astronomy books lay beside her bed.
She found the Harris boynow a mechanic with a garage named *Lens Place*. Tracked down the dying womans daughter. “Mum spoke of an angel who brought her stars,” shed said.
Emily brought planetarium tickets. Under the artificial sky, Margaret whispered, “Thats Vega. He wrote it reminded him of youbright, cool.”
One night, she discovered a final notebooka *guide* to her. Lists of her favourite flowers, dates she mourned her mother, notes like:
*When angry, let her cool. Speak after tea. She values actions over words.*
On the last page, shaky with age:
*Principle: Dont try to be her everything. Be the ground beneath her feet. Shes a comet. Im her orbit. Thats enough.*
It wasnt. She wanted to scream into the past: *Fight! Make me see you!* But hed chosen his wayquiet, endless devotion.
On his birthday, they visited his grave with a pocket telescope. “Hed have been glad,” Emily said.
“No,” Margaret replied. “Hed have said nothing. Just smiled. Then written: *Margaret looked at the stars today. It was beautiful.*”
She finally understood. Shed feared *his silence* would die with him. Instead, hed left it allin diaries, roses, memories. Shed lived with a stranger fifty years. Now, she had forever to know him.
Like the universe he lovedboundless.
