I didn't sleep that night.
The diary stayed beside me on the bed, closed, but heavier than anything I had ever held. My mind kept replaying the lines I had read. The way his handwriting had pressed deeper into the paper. The urgency. The fear.
And the secrets.
Morning came slowly, like it was hesitant to enter a house filled with grief and questions.
I picked up the diary again.
For a few minutes, I just stared at it. My fingers traced the edges of the worn cover, as if trying to gather courage from something as simple as touch.
Then I opened it.
This time, I started reading properly.
Not skipping. Not rushing.
Line by line.
My father had written about his past. Not the version I knew—the ordinary one. Not the simple life I had grown up believing.
A different life.
He wrote about how he met my mother.
It wasn't at a party. Not through relatives. Not in any normal way.
He met her at night.
Alone.
He described it like something out of a strange dream — a woman standing in the dark, calm, fearless, watching him before speaking. He wrote about how she didn't behave like anyone he had ever known. She spoke less, observed more, and always seemed… distant. As if she belonged somewhere else.
But he fell in love.
Slowly.
Carefully.
And she did too.
At least, that's what he believed.
The diary described their meetings, their conversations, the way she avoided crowds, the way she never spoke about her past. He wrote about the day she finally told him she couldn't live a normal life. That loving her would bring danger.
He didn't listen.
They got married.
But after that, the entries changed.
The tone grew tense.
He mentioned arguments. Secrets. Nights when she would disappear. Days when she wouldn't eat. Moments when he felt like he didn't really know the woman he had married.
And then…
The writing stopped for a moment.
I turned the page, my heartbeat quickening.
That's when—
Knock.
A sharp sound echoed through the house.
I froze.
Another knock. Louder.
For a second, I didn't move. My mind struggled to shift back into reality. The diary still lay open in my lap, the words burning into my thoughts.
Knock. Knock.
I stood up slowly and walked toward the front door. My feet felt heavy, as if I was still trapped inside those pages.
When I opened the gate, a delivery man stood there holding a parcel.
"Your name?" he asked.
I nodded, signed quickly, and took the box from him.
The moment I closed the gate, the silence returned.
I walked back inside, placed the parcel on the table, and sat down. The diary was still open where I had left it.
But suddenly… I couldn't read anymore.
My head was spinning.
Everything felt unreal.
I closed the diary and pushed it aside.
The important part… the truth… whatever he had been leading to… remained unread.
I told myself I would come back to it later.
Evening arrived slowly.
The sky outside turned dark, and the house fell into its usual quiet. I hadn't touched the parcel. I hadn't eaten. I had barely moved.
But the diary kept pulling at my thoughts.
Before dinner, I finally picked it up again.
My hands felt colder this time.
I opened it to the exact page where I had stopped earlier and began reading.
The next entry was different.
Shorter.
Sharper.
And terrifying.
My father had written:
"She is not human."
I blinked.
My breath caught.
I read the line again.
And again.
The next words made my heart slam against my chest.
"She is a vampire."
I stared at the page.
Waiting for it to make sense.
Waiting for my brain to reject it as fiction, imagination, madness.
But it was written in his handwriting.
Clear.
Certain.
He described it — how he discovered the truth. The night he saw her wounds heal. The way she avoided sunlight. The way she could hear things from impossible distances. The way she confessed… not proudly, not angrily… but with fear.
She had never meant to fall in love.
She had tried to stay away.
But she couldn't.
And neither could he.
My hands began shaking.
"This isn't real," I whispered. "This can't be real."
My chest tightened. My thoughts spiraled.
Vampires didn't exist.
They were stories. Myths. Movies. Nightmares.
Not my mother.
Not my life.
Not my father's truth.
Anger rose inside me, sudden and violent.
I slammed the diary shut.
"No," I said aloud. "This is wrong. This is insane."
I stood up, breathing heavily, my heart racing. I felt betrayed. Confused. Terrified.
As if my entire identity had been twisted into something unrecognizable.
Without thinking, I walked into the kitchen.
I grabbed a lighter.
Then I walked outside.
The night air was cold. Silent.
I placed the diary on the ground.
For a moment, I hesitated.
But anger overpowered everything.
I flicked the lighter on.
The flame trembled.
And then I held it against the edge of the diary.
The paper caught fire slowly at first… then faster. Orange light spread across the pages, curling them inward. The smell of burning paper filled the air.
I stared at it.
Watching my father's words turn into ash.
Watching the truth disappear.
Watching everything I didn't want to believe… vanish.
But as the fire grew, something inside me snapped.
My eyes locked onto the burning pages.
What if… it was true?
What if I was destroying the only answers I had?
Panic surged through me.
Without thinking, I dropped to my knees and pulled the diary out of the flames.
The edges were blackened. Some pages burned. But the center—
Still intact.
My hands trembled as I held it.
The fire flickered out behind me, leaving smoke curling into the night.
My heart pounded.
I stared at the half-burned diary, my mind racing, fear tightening its grip around my thoughts.
If my mother wasn't human…
Then what did that make me?
The question echoed inside my head.
And for the first time…
I was afraid of the answer.