I’ll never forget you.
Lydia Stevens walked home with her drape coat unbuttoned, clutching a worn-out satchel filled with her students’ exercise books. She’d spend the evening marking essays.
Just days ago, the trees had only begun to bud, and now tiny green leaves unfurled beneath the bright, warm sun. Spring was awakening, and soon everything would burst into bloom.
Passersby greeted Lydia with respect, and she returned their nods with a quiet smile. She had taught most of them—or now their children—English and literature at the local school.
She was slender, almost girlishly so, petite enough to be mistaken for a young woman from behind. And her face was pleasant enough. But who was there to marry here? So she lived alone in a small wooden house on a narrow lane, the place assigned to her when she’d arrived as a young teacher a quarter of a century ago.
The town itself was tiny, more like a village. Nowadays, new teachers got flats in modest brick buildings, though few chose to come—most headed straight for London or Manchester instead.
But Lydia had grown attached to her little house and couldn’t bring herself to leave. In her free time, she pottered about in the garden. When she’d first arrived, she could barely boil an egg, but life had taught her everything—lighting the stove, tending the soil, even pickling cabbage and making jam.
Life…
That spring had been much like this one. Back then, two young men had sat beneath her dormitory window, arguing over the spelling of a word—both wrong. She’d leaned out and corrected them, annoyed by their bickering.
One of them, quick-witted, asked her to check a note he’d written. Lydia stepped outside, fixed his mistakes.
“Cheers,” he said. “Lucky we ran into you. What’s your name?”
“Lydia.”
“I’m Victor. You a teacher?”
“Or tutor, instructor…” she corrected gently.
She liked him instantly. He had a bear-like presence, solid and reassuring. When he proposed, she said yes without hesitation.
His mother, however, was less pleased.
“What’ll you do with her, read books? Bet she can’t even cook. You’ll have your hands full,” she muttered after Lydia left.
She wasn’t wrong. Lydia’s culinary skills stretched to burning pasta and scrambling eggs. She’d set a pot to boil, lose herself in a book, and forget it entirely until the stench of char filled the air.
Realising her son would starve and her dishes would be ruined, Victor’s mother took over the cooking. Lydia tried to learn, while Victor made an effort—dressing smarter, dropping the rough language. They were happy, for a time.
A year later, their son was born—steady and serious like his father. It was early, but later, with teaching, maternity leave would’ve been tricky. Now it was done and dusted.
But Victor’s mother grew bolder, needling him in front of Lydia, calling her useless. Lydia endured it silently, confiding only to Victor at night.
“She doesn’t like me.”
“I do,” he’d say, kissing her.
Eager to return to work, Lydia planned to enrol little George in nursery.
“Over my dead body,” her mother-in-law snapped. “I’ll look after him.”
Grateful, Lydia threw herself into teaching, marking papers late into the evening while her mother-in-law sighed loudly, making her displeasure known.
Maybe it wore Victor down, or maybe he grew tired of trying—either way, he began staying out. His clothes grew rumpled, his speech coarser. He stopped touching her altogether.
Then his mother delivered the news with spiteful glee: Victor had taken up with a shopgirl, brassy and loud, who fed him scarce treats without trying to change a thing about him.
Lydia confronted him.
“Sorry,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes. “We’re just too different.”
She went to the education office, asked for a transfer—anywhere.
Mid-year, positions were scarce, but one opened: a young teacher had fled a village school three months prior. There was a house, too. Lydia took it, packed up George, and left.
The village was barely more than a hamlet. Her new home was a weathered wooden cottage with a half-collapsed shed out back. She learned to light the stove, till the garden, and fetch water from the pump. George thrived, chasing neighbour’s cats through the currant bushes.
Victor paid child support but never visited. He married the shopgirl—they had two daughters.
George left for university, crashing with Victor at first, but the flat was cramped, the girls a nuisance. The shopgirl fought endlessly with Victor’s mother until she was banished to a tiny flat of her own, cutting ties completely.
At first, George visited Lydia on holidays. Every time he stepped through her door, she flinched—he looked so like his father. Now he was a lead engineer, holidaying in Cornwall or abroad. Alive, well. Good enough.
Opposite her house, builders were finishing a new home. Lydia paused, watching a tanned man in a vest slot window frames into place.
“Like it?” he called, spotting her.
“Yes.”
“You live over there? Your porch could use fixing—roof’s about to leak.”
“It does when it rains hard.”
“Want me to sort it?”
“How much?”
“We’ll figure it out. Job’s done in a week. I’ll pop round, see what else needs doing.”
She hesitated. He couldn’t be over forty, ruggedly handsome. What did he want with her? She’d be retiring soon. Still, she looked young for her age. Small dogs stayed puppies forever.
She hurried home, seeing the place anew—the crooked porch, the gate hanging by one hinge. She’d gotten used to it all.
The next day, he surveyed the house briskly, jotting notes.
“Saturday, then. Don’t worry about materials—got plenty spare from the new build.”
“I haven’t much money,” she admitted.
“Don’t fret. Feed me, that’ll do.”
She set the table, even produced a half-finished bottle of wine.
“Only if you join me,” Michael smiled.
Over lunch, he admitted he’d left his wife, joined a crew travelling for work.
“Sick of drifting. I’m a homebody. Let me stay while I fix the place—that’ll cover it.”
She agreed, wary but desperate. The neighbours raised eyebrows but said nothing. Soon the house gleamed with fresh paint, a solid new porch. Lydia kept holding the gate out of habit long after it was fixed.
She liked Michael, though she’d never admit it. “Old fool,” she scolded herself.
Yet, somehow, they fell into step. Lydia grew younger, swapping her tight bun for loose hair or a ponytail. She glowed like her refurbished home.
At first, they hid it. Then they stopped caring. They walked by the river, picked berries. Some were happy for them; others sneered.
“Plenty of proper widows about, and he picks that old thing?”
Lydia ignored them. She didn’t try to change Michael—she loved him as he was. Late love burns brightest when you know each day could be the last. And Lydia treasured every one.
Michael fixed roofs and fences for the neighbours, even landed steady work. The school turned a blind eye—who else would teach here? The young all fled for London.
Three years passed in a blink.
Then one evening, she found him staring at the wall. Her stomach twisted; her legs gave way. She knew.
“What?” she whispered.
“Sorry, love. My wife called. My son wants me back—didn’t even recognise his voice. She’s struggling with the kids.” He knelt, wrapped his arms around her waist. “I’ve got to go. Let me.”
She didn’t cry. She packed his things—he’d accumulated so much, even bought a second-hand car. She walked him out.
“I’ll never forget you. Call if you need anything fixed—though I did a good job. Shouldn’t break.” He tucked a loose strand behind her ear, held her, then left.
She locked the gate, collapsed onto the bed, and sobbed. Three days later, pale and thinner, she returned to work. Everyone saw the light had left her eyes, the grey in her hair, the new lines on her face. They knew.
Lydia kept her phone close, waiting. He couldn’t just forget her. But weeks passed, then months. “Must be fine, then,” she told herself.
She never knew that same day, fifteen miles from town, a drunk driver’s SUV had ploughed into Michael’s car. The old vehicle crumpled. He died before the ambulance came.
Every time she approached the house, Lydia ran her fingers over the porch and gate he’d fixed, imagining they still held his warmth. Eventually, the wood darkened, the traces of him fading with rain and snow.
Her son took her to the city when his second child was born. She went gladly.
Who knows? Maybe one day, she’d bump intoPerhaps one day, on a crowded street, she would turn a corner and see him standing there, and for a moment, the years would melt away as she whispered, “Hello.”
