As a teen, Daniella Isaacs sneaked a peek at her mother’s private journal – and was surprised at what she read. The discovery sent her on a life-long journey questioning the meaning of trust, desire and, ultimately, love
I discovered my mum’s diary in her bedside drawer. I read it compulsively and in secret. I was 14, that despicable adolescent age when my friends were desperate to swap body fluids and I just wanted to stay home and do magic tricks. I found the sacred book one Saturday night when my parents were out. I’d had a craving to go snooping. They always locked their bedroom door – it was no wonder I wanted to mine the off-limits zone.
The diary rocked my existence. A tome of secrets that revealed the inner sanctum of my parents’ marriage, it consumed me, and ripped apart the fairytale narrative I had been sold, instead revealing the jagged truth of their relationship. The pain was addictive. But soon, reading the diary wasn’t enough. I started hacking into their mobile phones (it was easier back then). And it was the days of the landline, so I was able to silently listen into their hushed phone calls. I was a pubescent Nancy Drew trying to crack the mystery of my parents’ marriage.
