Picking mushrooms to survive on my small Social Security check, I fell into an underground hideout… What I saw inside made my hair stand on end…

My whole being was consumed by the find, which lay against my chest, burning cold through the fabric of my old jacket. Getting home, I first locked the door with all the locks. My hands trembled slightly.

I sat at the kitchen table, the same one where John and I had dinner for so many years, and placed the notebook in front of me. My heart pounded so hard it seemed about to jump out of my chest. I untied the twine on the photographs.

From the yellowed cardboard, young and happy faces looked at me. Here was a young woman with kind eyes, in whom I barely but recognized my mother-in-law, Elizabeth, as I’d seen her in rare old snapshots. Next to her stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with an open smile, Robert.

And in his arms, he held a little boy, my future husband John. I flipped through the photos, and tears welled up in my eyes. So much happiness, so many hopes in those faces.

And all of it was destroyed. Setting aside the photographs, I opened the diary. Robert’s handwriting was even, each letter drawn with care.

He wrote infrequently, but in great detail. The first pages were dedicated to his wife Elizabeth. He described their meeting, his love, the birth of their son.

Each line breathed such tenderness and care that I involuntarily smiled through tears. This man couldn’t have just abandoned his family. He couldn’t have vanished without a trace.

Something terrible, irreparable must have happened. I read about how they dreamed of a big, bright apartment, how they saved every penny. John was just a toddler then, and they wanted the best for him.

I turned page after page, delving deeper into the past, into the life of a family I would join only many years later. And the more I read, the stronger the premonition of trouble grew. And trouble came.

In the diary pages, the name Arthur appeared more and more often. He was Robert’s childhood friend, almost like a brother. They grew up together, worked together at the mill.

Robert trusted him boundlessly. «Arthur is a business-minded guy, sharp,» he wrote, «he’ll help us with the apartment. He has connections, he’ll arrange everything the best way.»

I read these lines, and a chill ran down my spine. I already knew this wouldn’t end well. Robert described how he and Arthur found the ideal option—a spacious three-bedroom apartment in a new building almost in the city center.

How they gathered all their savings, borrowed from relatives. They gave all the money to Arthur, who was supposed to handle the deal. A sudden knock at the door made me startle.

I quickly hid the diary and photos in the table drawer and went to open it. On the threshold stood Michael and Sarah. They looked determined.

«Mom, we need to talk,» Sarah declared without preamble, entering the apartment. Michael, as always, trailed behind, looking guilty at the floor. They started the old song about selling the apartment again.

Sarah painted rosy pictures. How they’d pay off the mortgage, buy a new car, go on vacations. «And you, Mom, will live near us in a cozy one-bedroom.

We’ll take care of you,» she chirped. But today her words evoked not annoyance, but dull irritation turning into anger. «No,» I said firmly, looking her straight in the eyes.

Sarah was taken aback for a moment. Usually, I’d start persuading, explaining, but here was a short and harsh no. «But why,» she flared up, «you can’t manage on your own.

We want to help.» «This apartment is not for sale,» I cut her off, «never.» My words had such steel that even Sarah faltered.

Michael raised a surprised gaze at me. «Mom, what’s wrong? Did something happen?» he asked. «Nothing happened, son.

I just decided that. And it’s my final decision. This home is not just walls, Sarah.

It’s memory. And justice. You wouldn’t understand.»

They left disconcerted, and I returned to the table. My hands trembled again, but now from fury. I took out the diary.

Now I had to learn everything to the end. I flipped a few pages and found what I was looking for. The date was framed in mourning.

«He betrayed me,» Robert wrote. «Arthur—my friend, my brother. He registered everything in his name.

The whole apartment is now his. He showed me the documents with only his last name. Said I couldn’t prove anything, that I gave him the money in cash, without receipts.

He laughed in my face.» Further, the handwriting became uneven, erratic. Robert described how he tried to seek the truth, went to authorities, but hit a wall everywhere.

Arthur had apparently planned everything and bribed everyone. I read and couldn’t believe it. The apartment I was sitting in now, the one Sarah wanted to sell to pay off their mortgage, was the very one stolen from my husband’s father.

But how did it end up back in our family? John never told anything like that. He said they got it from the state after his father went missing. Did he not know the truth? Or did he know but stay silent? The answer was on the next pages…