Disclaimer: I do not own anything.
"Mom!" my daughter, Isabella, yelled from the attic. She was looking for her high-school yearbooks to show her husband, Daniel. He had heard about her high-school boyfriend, Seth, and how he had proposed to Isabella. Now don't get me wrong, Daniel is not a jealous mess. He had thought it was funny and wanted to see the man who almost stole Isabella away from him. So my daughter was now searching through my attic, looking for those old books. I had advised her not to – I found that attic utterly disgusting – but she didn't want to listen, and now she's probably yelling for me because she saw a spider.
"What is it, honey?" I yelled back up. Knowing my daughter, if it wasn't some sort of bug, it was something stupid, and I was not going to stop baking my cake for something like an old clock that doesn't even work anymore.
"Can you come up here? I think you should see this," she replied. I rolled my eyes.
"Isabella Marie, I am not going to stop making my cake – your favorite by the way – just so I can look at some cloths you wore when you were two!" I answered.
"Mom," Isabella called back down. "It's Grandma's."
I stopped what I was doing once she said that. I put down the bowl and spoon and hurried up to the attic.
"What is it?" I asked my 31-year-old daughter. Isabella looked just like my mother. She had her heart-shaped face and chocolate brown hair. But she didn't have my mother's and my eyes. She had emerald eyes like my father. But that was the only thing she got from him, unlike me. Even though I had my mother's eyes, I had my father's odd bronze-colored hair and most of his features.
"It's her diary," Isabella said, handing me the old book. I took it with shaking hands. The year on the front was 1945. For some reason, this year was important. But I couldn't remember know why. "I found it in this old trunk," I heard Isabella say.
I nodded. "You're grandfather will want to see this."
"But Mom, won't …won't it just make him mad?" she asked. I gave a dry chuckle.
"Isabella, when it comes to your grandmother, Edward Cullen is never mad. He's loving and over protective. I saw it while I was growing up."
"Why is that, Mom?" I paused, thinking of an answer for this question.
"Sugar Lump," I said, using her old nickname, "I have no idea."