I’ll Love You Always
Emily barely made it home, clinging to the stairwell railing for support. Her vision swam with dark spots, and her head spun with dizziness. Hands shaking, she rummaged through her handbag, desperately searching for her keys. All she could do was curse herself for panicking in the doctors officethough really, how could anyone not panic?
Dr. Clarke had laid the MRI scans on the desk, her voice steady and measured as she spoke:
Miss Emily Turner, Im afraid your situation is quite serious. Its an aneurysm. The artery wall is so thin, its like gossamer. Imagine a balloon about to burstany stress, any spike in blood pressure You need surgery as soon as possible. Waiting for an NHS slot is like Russian roulette. We cant say if you have enough time.
And if I pay privately? Emily managed to stammer, clinging tightly to the strap of her bag.
The doctor named the price. The figure echoed through Emilys mind like a sentence. Shed never had that kind of moneyher mothers death had left her with nothing but debts and a meagre librarians wage. Even if she sold a kidney, it wouldnt fetch that much.
Wait for a call from the hospital, Dr. Clarke advised gently. And try not to worry. Complete rest.
Rest?! Emily wanted to scream. But she only nodded dully and left, feeling her knees buckle beneath her.
Propped now against the door of Uncle Georges old flat, she struggled to catch her breath. The place was hers nowher inheritance. Uncle George, her fathers reclusive brother and lifelong eccentric, had bequeathed her his three-bedroom flat stuffed to the rafters with bric-a-brac. For someone else, a treasure-trove of antiques; for her, just one more problem.
Ill have to go through everything, she thought, wandering through cluttered rooms. Maybe I can sell somethingthe sideboard, that old cabinet At least enough for a down payment at the clinic.
The idea of simply sitting and waiting for the balloon in her head to burst drove her mad. She needed to do somethinganything to distract herself.
Emily began at the writing desk in the sitting room. It was sturdy and oak, with heavy drawers brimming with papers. She grabbed a bin bag and dove in: receipts from the nineties? Bin. Old bills? Bin. Appliance manuals for toasters and vacuum cleaners long since dumped? Bin.
She worked on autopilot, needing to keep moving. Gradually, the pain in her head subsided. In the very bottom drawer, beneath a pile of old Times newspapers, her fingers found something hard. She pulled out a battered cardboard file, tied shut with worn ribbons.
Curiosity overcame her fatigue. Emily undid the ribbons. Inside was a neat stack of lettersnot in envelopes, just pages covered in a mans handwriting she recognised as Uncle Georges.
She picked up the top sheet.
My dearest Lydia,
Its been three months since you left, and I still cant adjust. I went to the college todayeverything reminds me of you. Theres nothing but emptiness. I was a fool, a proud boy. I shouldnt have let you go after that argument. I have no idea where you are now. Your neighbour just told me youd moved away, nothing more. I write these letters into the void, but its the only thing keeping me going.
Your George.
Emily froze. Shed always thought of Uncle George as a dry, distant man, out of step with the world. But heresuch pain, such tenderness. She read the next letter. And another. All dated the same year1972. Each told the same story: a meeting, first love, a terrible row over a trifle (he had refused to meet the girls parents and ask their blessing for marriage, afraid of the responsibility), and then Lydia had left with her family, destination unknown. With no address, George poured out letter after letter, swearing eternal love but with nowhere to send them.
Lydia, Ill keep searching for you. If I never find you, Ill love only you. All my life.
And, it seemed, hed kept his word. The eternal bachelor, dying alone.
Tears ran silently down Emilys cheeks. She was suddenly overwhelmed with pity for this man. And out of that sadness came a wild, persistent urge. What if? What if Lydia was still alive? She could find her. Tell her that shed been loved and remembered all these years.
It was a real purpose, something to fix her mind onto drown out fear with action. Maybe, just maybe, she could mend an old mistake.
She rifled back through the letters for clues. No surname, no address. But in one letter, Do you remember our walks in the park near the town hall? You always laughed at those stone lions by the entrance to your building on Queens Avenue.
Queens Avenue. The town hall park. Emily grabbed her ageing mobile and found images of old Georgian buildings, complete with lion sculptures. It was a start, but she needed more.
In the bedroom, inside the bedside cabinet, she unearthed a dusty photo album with a leather spine. There was young Georgefair-haired, open-facedand Lydia, with two dark plaits and luminous eyes. On the reverse of one photo of a student group, she found inked handwriting: Group E2, Tech College, 1971. Lydia G., George, Simon.
Lydia G. Just one letter! But a thread to follow.
The hunt turned digital. Emily scoured alumni forums, online archives, and social networks, typing in Lydia, G, a birth year around 1950-52, and the city. She trawled every mention of maiden names.
Andjackpot! On a local heritage forum, in a discussion of college alumni: My mum, Lydia Grace Simmons (nee Gregory), graduated evening classes, 1973
Gregory. Lydia Gregory. The college. It all matched. Married surname: Simmons.
A quick online search for Lydia Grace Simmons brought up a small article in the local gazette for International Womens Day, with a photo. Local heroes, veterans of the workforce, were being honoured. Silver-haired, dignified, with kind, intelligent eyes. Emily checked it against the albums Lydia. Age had altered her features, but the gaze was unmistakablesteadfast and clear.
The piece mentioned that Lydia Grace lived in Rosefield and was active in the community council.
Emilys heart raced. She needed a precise address. She rang the Rosefield council, introduced herself as a community worker wanting to deliver an award, and easily got the street and house number.
She scarcely recalled packing the letters and a bottle of water in her satchel before heading for the coach station. The journey dragged on forever, her mind whirring with possibilities. What if Lydia refused to see her? Slammed the door? Thought her a scammer?
Rosefield greeted her with peace and the scent of blooming apple trees. The house was tidy, with a green gate and roses in the garden. Emily took a deep breath, knees trembling, and pressed the bell.
Lydia Grace herself opened the door. In person, she looked frailer and older than in the photo.
Yes? Her voice was gentle, but wary.
Hello, are you Lydia Grace? Emilys own voice shook traitorously.
I am. And you?
Im Emily Turner. I Im George Turners niece.
The effect was instant. Lydias fingers gripped the gate until her knuckles whitened. Her stern face twisted for a moment with pain and shock.
George? she almost whispered, so faintly Emily heard only by straining. Which George?
George Edward Turner. He he passed away. A month ago.
Lydia Grace retreated, her gestures mechanical, inviting Emily inside. Emily crossed the neat garden and entered the warm living room. Lydia sank into an armchair, her hands trembling.
Hes gone she stared into the distance, her voice hollow. I always wondered Sometimes I checked the papers for obituaries. Wondered if my George was still out there.
My George. Emilys heart twinged at those words.
Lydia Grace, he he never forgot you.
Lydias look flashed with something not quite beliefalmost indignation.
How do you know?
I found this Emily pulled out the file and held it out. He wrote to you. Dozens of times. All those years. I found them in his desk.
Lydia took the file as if it were delicate and dangerous. Her fingers fumbled at the ribbons, then she began to read the letters. She read on in silence, one after the other. Tears began to roll down her face. She made no movement to brush them away.
Silly, silly boy, she murmured at last, her voice barely a whisper. Why did you do this to yourself?
He loved you, Emily said softly. He never married.
I know. Lydia lifted wet eyes to Emilys face. I heard about him, some fifteen years agoby chance, through a college friend. She said hed always been single, lived alone. I I never dared go to him. I was ashamed. I was scared.
Ashamed? Emily echoed, confused.
I left back then. I left because I thought I thought he didnt love me, didnt want a family. And I She faltered, clutching the letter. And I was pregnant, Emily.
Emily sat motionless, stunned.
What? she finally whispered.
Yes. Two months along, and I didnt know how to tell him. After our row I thought hed panic and run. So I ran first. Took my parents. Had a son.
The silence was thick as fog. Emily felt the blood drain from her face.
Uncle George had a son? she managed.
Lydia nodded, staring out the window.
Alexander grew into a wonderful man. I married after thatNicholas, my husband he knew everything. Took me and my boy in. Hes a good man, I owe him everything. Sashaher voice caughtSasha always knew who his biological father was. But George George was always here She pressed her fist to her heart. Always. I never forgot him.
Thoughts raced through Emilys mind. She had a brother. A cousina real, blood relative.
And Alexander Where is he now?
Hes a surgeon, Lydia said, voice brimming with both pride and sadness. Very well known. Hes got his own clinic here in townMedart Clinic, you might have heard of it? They specialise in vascular surgery
She stopped, peering at Emily with sudden concern.
My dear, youre so pale. Are you all right? Are you ill?
Those simple words, so warm and caring, cut through Emilys defences. She hadnt planned to confide yet the story spilled outher dizziness, the terrifying diagnosis, the astronomical cost for private care, the endless wait for an NHS spot.
Lydia listened, her face settling into a look of steely determination. As Emily finished, wiping her tears, Lydia stood, went to the phone, and dialled a number.
Sasha? she said, skipping all preamble. You need to come. No, Im fine, honestly. But something miraculous has happened. Come now, son. You have to meet your sister.
He arrived an hour and a half latera tall, fit man in an understated, expensive suit. Mid-forties, with those same piercing grey eyes as young George in the photographs, and fair hair just touched with silver.
Mum, whats going on? His voice was calm but his expression tense. He glanced at Emily.
Sasha, this is Emily. Emily, Lydia composed herself and spoke with clarity, is your late fathers niece. Shes your cousin.
Alexander hesitated in the doorway, his gaze resting thoughtfully on Emilys pale, anxious face, on the letters laid out on the table, then back to his mother.
My father was George Turner? he asked slowly.
Yes, Emily nodded. I even have his photos.
She handed over her phone with the scanned album pages. Alexander studied them for a long, silent moment. His face never changed, but Emily saw his jaw tighten.
He never married? he finally asked softly.
No, she whispered.
He looked up at her, eyes heavy with meaning.
Mum says youre unwell.
She nodded, the familiar lump rising in her throat. Lydia briefly summarised the diagnosis.
Do you have scans? Doctors notes? Alexanders voice shifted into pure professional.
Emily silently passed over the file of her medical records. He stepped under the lamp, reading every paper minutely. At last, he set them down.
You need surgery, without delay. Waiting could be fatalliterally.
I know, Emily muttered. But the cost
Be at my clinic tomorrow at nine oclock, he interrupted. Ill send you the address. Well do all the tests and prep. The operation will be the next morning.
I cant afford Emily started, her cheeks burning.
Alexander looked at her, his gaze suddenly soft, almost paternal.
Emily, listen. I have everything I needclinic, money. Youre family now. He paused. In my family, theres no such thing as cant pay. Understood?
Emily found she couldnt speakonly nod, as the tears slid down her cheeks. This wasnt just luck. It was salvationdelivered by a love almost fifty years old.
Lydia stood and embraced her: solidly, warmly.
Its all right now, darling. Everything will be fine. Then she looked at her son. Sasha, shell stay with us after the surgery, wont she? Ill take care of her.
Of course, Mum. Alexander smiled, and in his countenance Emily saw such relief and warmth that she finally believedshe was part of this family at last.
And looking at them nowher reserved brother, the elderly woman whose lifelong sorrow was at last soothedEmily felt her own fear begin to dissolve. In its absence came a new, longed-for certainty: she wasnt alone. And ahead, she had a life.
