*I Will Never Forget You*
Lydia Thompson walked home in her unbuttoned wool coat, clutching a worn leather briefcase filled with student essays. The evening ahead promised hours of grading.
Only recently, the trees had budded, but now young leaves unfurled in the warm spring sun. Nature was shaking off winter’s slumber. Soon, the world would burst into bloom.
Passersby greeted Lydia Thompson with quiet respect. She returned their nods, her smile polite but reserved. Most of them had been her pupils back in the day; now, their children sat in her classroom.
Petite and slender, she still carried the grace of a younger woman. From behind, she could pass for a girl. Even now, she was pleasant to look at—though who was left to marry in this place? So, she lived alone in that small wooden cottage on a narrow lane, given to her as part of her teaching contract when she first arrived from the city twenty-five years ago.
The town itself was tiny—more a village than anything else. These days, young professionals got flats in sturdy brick houses. But few came here willingly; most chased dreams in London or Manchester.
Lydia had grown attached to her little home, unable to imagine parting with it. In her free hours, she tended the garden. When she first moved here, she hadn’t known a thing about housekeeping. Now she chopped wood, pickled cabbage, and bottled preserves. Life had taught her well.
Life…
It had been spring then too. Beneath her dormitory window, two lads sat arguing over the spelling of some word. Neither had it right. Irritated by their bickering, she’d leaned out and corrected them.
One of them—quick-witted—had asked her to check his entire report. She’d stepped outside, red pen in hand, and marked his mistakes.
“Cheers,” he’d grinned. “Lucky we found you. What’s your name?”
“Lydia.”
“Victor,” he said. “You training to be a teacher? We work just down the road.”
“*Teacher* or *tutor* would be more appropriate,” she’d corrected.
Victor had reminded her of a bear—solid, dependable. When he proposed months later, she’d said yes without hesitation.
His mother hadn’t approved.
“What’ll you do with her, read books together?” she’d muttered after Lydia left. “Bet she can’t even cook. You’ll run yourself ragged. Should’ve picked someone simpler.”
She hadn’t been wrong. Lydia could barely boil pasta without burning it. She’d set a pot to boil, then lose herself in a novel until the acrid stench of smoke snapped her back.
Fearing her son would starve—and her good pans ruin—Victor’s mother took over the cooking. Lydia tried to learn, and Victor tried to be better—dressing smartly, minding his language. For a while, they were happy.
A year later, their son was born—quiet and steady like his father. Early, perhaps, but better now than later. How could she take maternity leave mid-term? This way, it was done.
But Victor’s mother grew bolder, lamenting—often in front of Lydia—that he’d married a useless girl. Lydia bore it silently, whispering her hurt only to Victor at night.
“All that matters is I love you,” he’d say, kissing her.
Eager to return to work, Lydia planned to send their son to nursery.
“Over my dead body,” her mother-in-law had snapped. “I’ll look after him.” And she quit her job to do so.
Grateful, Lydia threw herself into teaching, marking papers late into the night. Her mother-in-law sighed loudly, making no secret of her disdain.
Perhaps it wore on Victor. Or perhaps he grew tired of trying. He started staying out late, his clothes rumpled, his speech coarse. He stopped touching her altogether.
The news of his affair came with vicious delight from his mother. The other woman was a shopgirl—big-boned, brassy-haired, heavy with makeup. She didn’t try to change Victor. She fed him black-market treats instead.
Lydia confronted him.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, avoiding her eyes. “We’re too different.”
She went to the council’s education office, begged for a transfer—anywhere. Midyear placements were scarce, but one opened: a village so small it barely had a name. The last teacher had fled after three months. A house came with the job. She took it, packed her son, and left.
The village was little more than cottages and dirt lanes. Her “house” was a crumbling shack with a half-collapsed woodshed. Swallowing panic, Lydia learned to chop wood, tend the garden, and haul water from the well. Her son, grinning, chased the neighbour’s cats through the blackberry bushes.
Victor sent child support but never visited. He married the shopgirl. They had two daughters.
When their son finished school, he left for university, crashing at Victor’s cramped flat at first. He complained about his stepsisters’ spite. The new wife clashed with Victor’s mother—screaming matches loud enough for the neighbours to bang on the walls. Victor moved his mother into his wife’s old studio. After that, she never spoke to either of them again.
For a while, her son visited Lydia on holidays. Every time he crossed her threshold, she flinched—he looked so much like his father. The house felt heavier with him in it. Now he was a lead engineer, holidaying in Spain or Greece. Alive. Well. That was enough.
Across the lane, builders swarmed over what had been a derelict cottage. The roof was already on. Lydia paused, watching a sunburnt man in a vest slot window frames into place.
“Like it?” he called, catching her stare.
She nodded.
“You live over there?” He jerked his chin toward her house. “Your porch is sagging. Roof’ll leak soon, too.”
“It already does in heavy rain,” she admitted.
“Want me to fix it?”
“Really? What’ll you charge?”
“We’ll sort something. Job here wraps up next week. I’ll pop by, see what else needs attention.”
She hesitated. He couldn’t be older than forty, ruggedly handsome. What did he want with her? She’d be retiring soon. True, she looked young for her age—small women always did—but still…
She murmured a goodbye and hurried inside. For the first time, she saw her home through his eyes: the crooked porch, the gate hanging by one hinge. She’d long stopped noticing, stepping over the broken stair, steadying the gate out of habit.
Yes, the house needed work. Could she afford it?
Two days later, he returned, jotting notes in a battered notebook.
“Saturday, then. Don’t fret over materials—I’ve got spares.” He nodded at the half-built house behind him.
“I haven’t much money,” she confessed.
“Don’t rush me, love. Feed me instead.”
She laid out lunch, even produced a half-finished bottle of wine.
“Only if you join me,” Michael said, grinning.
Over the meal, he admitted he’d left his wife, joined a crew travelling for work.
“I’m sick of drifting. Let me board here while I fix the place—that’ll cover my pay.”
She wavered. He didn’t seem the dishonest sort. But the house needed repairs, and she had nothing worth stealing. A helper for the garden wouldn’t hurt either. She agreed.
Neighbours raised eyebrows but said nothing. The work went quickly. Soon, the cottage gleamed with fresh paint, a sturdy new porch. Even after the gate was fixed, Lydia still caught herself steadying it out of habit.
She liked Michael—though she’d never admit it. *Fancy a pensioner carrying on like this*, she scolded herself.
Yet, somehow, it happened. She grew lighter, younger. During term, she pinned her hair sternly back. Now, with summer break, she let it fall loose or tied it in a girlish ponytail. She glowed like her refurbished home.
At first, they kept quiet. Then they stopped hiding—strolling by the river, picking berries, laughing in the sun.
Some were happy for them. Others sniped.
“Plenty of lonely women here, prettier too, and he picks that old spinster? Nothing to look at!”
Lydia ignored the gossip. She didn’t try to change Michael. She loved him as he was. They say late love burns fiercest, each day precious. Lydia cherished every one, knowing it couldn’t last.
Michael fixed roofs for neighbours, built fences, took a steady job. The school turned a blind eye to their teacher’s scandal. Who’d replace her if she left? Young graduates fled for cities.
Three years slipped by like a single day.
Then, one evening, she came home to find Michael staring blankly at the wall. Her stomach lurched; her legs nearly gave way. She knew.
“What?” she whispered, fighting tears.
“Lyd… my wife called. My son wants me home.” His voice cracked. “Didn’t even recognise himShe smiled through the ache and whispered, “Go,” then watched the taillights disappear down the lane, the weight of every cherished moment settling like dust in the empty house.
