I Will Love You Always

Ill Always Love You

Molly shuffled along the street, leaning on the rail of her block as if she was 137 years old and hoping the bricks would keep her upright. Her head swam so crazily that her vision melted into black blobs. With shaking fingers, she rummaged through her handbag, cursing herself for losing her nerve in the doctors surgery. But really, who wouldnt have panicked?

Dr. Linton, laying out the MRI scans with all the cheer of a traffic warden, spoke quietly, almost bored:
Miss Howard, its serious. An aneurysm. The vessel wall is the thickness of a cobweb. Imagine a balloon about to burst. Any pressure, any stress… Surgerys urgent. Waiting for NHS funding is a gamble. We dont know if youve got that long.

If… if I paid privately? Molly croaked, squashing her bags strap in her clammy fist.

The doctor named a figure. It struck like a life sentence. Molly knew shed never see that much money in her life. Penniless ever since her mum died, neck-deep in debts, librarian salary of a couple grand a month… She could sell a kidney, but even the black market would laugh.

Wait for the funding call, Dr. Linton advised gently. And try not to worry. Complete rest.

Rest?! Molly wanted to shriek. But instead, she nodded and shuffled out, her knees melting beneath her.

Now, slumped against the door of Uncle Georges flat, Molly tried to catch her breath. Technically, it was hers nowher inheritance, such as it was. Uncle George, Dads eccentric, hermit-like brother, had left her this three-bedroom council flat, crammed with tat. For eBay enthusiasts: a goldmine. For Molly: just another headache.

I need to sort it out, she muttered, wading through the cluttered lounge. Sell some of it. Maybe that hideous sideboard, the Welsh dresser… Scrape together a deposit for the clinic, at least.

The thought of just sitting around, waiting for her head to pop like an overripe grape, was unbearable. She needed to *do* something. Anything. Even if it was just shoving junk into bin bags.

She started at the massive oak writing desk in the sitting room, drawers rammed to bursting. She grabbed a bin bag and got stuck in: gas bills from the nineties? Bin. Receipts for toasters long since rusted away? Bin. Instruction manuals for ancient vacuum cleaners, as useful now as a chocolate teapot? In they went.

It was mindless, but it helped. Slowly, her headache eased its grip. Then, deep in the bottom drawer, beneath a brittle stack of The Times from 1972, her fingers found something solid: a battered cardboard folder, tied up with faded blue ribbon.

Curiosity can sometimes outmuscle misery. Molly untied the bow. Inside: a neat pile of letters. No envelopes, just pages, all in the formal, slightly wobbly script of Uncle George.

She plucked the first sheet.

My dear Lydia,
Its been three months since you left. I cant get used to it. Even the universitys empty without you. I was a proud fool, a daft lad. I should never have let you go after our argument. I dont know where you are. Your housematewhen I calledjust said youd moved away, nothing more. I know Im writing into a void, but I have to. Its the only thing keeping me going. Yours, always, George.

Molly froze. Shed always pictured Uncle George as a dried-up old fossil. This? This was raw, painful, tender. She scanned another. And another. All from 1972, telling the same story: a love, a silly row (George, apparently allergic to meeting in-laws), Lydia leaving with her family, George left with just a gap in the shape of her. He didnt know where shed gone, had written letters with nowhere to send them, vowing undying love to an empty flat.

Lydia, Ill look for you. If I never find you, Ill love you, and only you, all my life.

And it appeared, from all evidence, hed stuck to his word. Poor old bat, forlorn and alone.

Molly cried, though she hated turning sentimental. Then, out of compassion, a mad, determined idea grew: What if Lydia was still alive? She had to find her. Tell her shed been loved and remembered.

It was something real to aim for, and the distraction she craved.

No surname, no address. She combed through the letters again. And thereclue! Remember the lion statues by your old flat on Queen Victoria Road? How you used to giggle at them after walks in the park?

Queen Victoria Road. Lion statues. Molly, fingers trembling, turned to Google on her relic of a mobile. Foundyesold Georgian blocks with stone lions. But that was barely anything to go on.

She began digging through the flat. In the bedside table, an ancient photo album surfaced: black leather, smelling faintly of mothballs. There was Georgeyoung, sandy-haired, earnest. And, among the grainy snaps, a girl with dark plaits and sparkling eyes. On the back of one group photo, in ink: Group E-2, Poly, 71. Lydia G., George, Pete.

Lydia G. Only an initial, but it was a start.

Digital sleuthing followed: alumni lists, genealogy sites, social clubs, school forums. Lydia, G, likely born 195052, London, Brighton, Birminghamanywhere the Poly could have been. She checked every post-war school-leavers register she could find. Eventuallybingo! On a local history forum, someone wrote: My mum, Lydia Gresham (née Gordon), graduated evening classes, 1973…

Gordon. Lydia Gordon.

Molly dug into this digital thread: Lydia Gresham. There she was in a council-run paper, photo included, being congratulated for decades of careers service by the residents association. She looked older, of coursehair silver, eyes wise and kindbut the smile was unmistakable.

They mentioned Lydia Gresham lived in Sunbury-on-Thames, active in community events.

Mollys heart thumped. She needed the address! After skateboarding through a call to the parish office, posing as a council worker with a certificate to deliver, she had ithouse and street.

Packing the folder of letters and a bottle of water, Molly was off to the bus station before she could talk herself out of it. The trip felt endless. A hundred times she pictured how Lydia might reactslam the door? Call the police? Serve tea and scones?

Sunbury-on-Thames greeted her with blossom-scented air and birdsong. Lydias house was neat, with a bright blue garden gate, walled with roses. Molly exhaled, legs threatening mutiny, and rang the bell.

Lydia Gresham answered, cardboard-thin, a little stoopedwarier than her newspaper portrait.

Yes? Her voice was calm, but wary.

Erhello, Mrs Gresham? Mollys voice wobbled.

Yes. And you are?

My names Molly. Im… George Howards niece.

The change was instant. Lydias hand gripped the gate, her face torqued by old pain and shock.

George? she whispered. Which George?

George Howard. He… he passed away. Last month.

Lydia moved aside, almost sleepwalking. Molly walked into a snuggly lounge. Lydia sank into her armchair, hands trembling.

Gone, she murmured. I always wondered. Sometimes scanned the obituarieswondering if my George was…

My George. Something twisted inside Molly.

Mrs Gresham, he… never forgot you.

Lydias eyes flasheddisbelieving, almost hurt.

How do you know?

I found these. Molly passed her the folder. He wrote, over and over, all those years.

Lydia clutched it as if it might burn. With trembling fingers, she opened it and began to read. Silence. A tear slid down her cheek. She didnt wipe it away.

Silly boy, she whispered, brokenly. Why did he torture himself?

He loved you, Molly replied. He never married.

I know. Lydias eyes met hers, still shining. I asked about him, fifteen years back. Ran into someone from the old group. She said he was a bachelor, living alone. I… I couldnt bring myself to visit. Pride. Cowardice.

Cowardice?

I left. Because I thought he didnt want a family. And… her hands twisted the paper, I was pregnant, Molly.

Time stopped. Air thickened.

What? Molly whispered.

Two months along. Didnt know how to tell him. After our row… I thought hed run away. So I left first. With my parents. Had a son.

The silence nearly collapsed the room.

Uncle George had a son? Molly squeaked.

Lydia nodded, staring through the garden window.

Alexander grew up to be a wonderful man. I married later. My husband, Nick, knew everythinghe loved us both. Alexander got his surname, but I always told him about George. Never hid the truth.

Molly felt the world turn upside down. She had a cousina real one.

Wheres Alexander now? she managed.

Hes a consultant surgeon, runs his own vascular clinic in townMedArt, you know it? Very well regarded.

Lydia paused, squinted maternally at Molly.

My dear, youre pale as milk. Are you ill?

That simple kindnessmy dearbroke the dam for Molly. Words tumbled out: the dizzy spells, the ghastly diagnosis, the monstrous bill, the queue for NHS funding.

Lydia listened, eyes hardening into resolve. She pulled herself up, reached for the landline, and dialed a number.

Sandy? Its Mum. Come here. Now. Im fine, but a miracles happened, truly. You must meet your cousin.

***

The meeting happened an hour later. A tall, sharp-featured man entered, smart but not flashy. Maybe forty-five, with those same stormy grey eyes and sandy hair Uncle George wore at eighteen.

Mum, whats happened? His voice was low, measured; worry flickered in his eyes when he saw Molly.

Sandy, this is Molly. Molly, this is your cousin, Lydia introduced, cool and decisive.

Alexander stopped dead, eyes darting between Mollys stricken face, Lydia, and the heap of letters on the table.

My father was… George Howard?

Yes, Molly said, offering the phone with photos from the battered album.

He studied them, silent, jaw working.

He never married? he asked, almost inaudibly.

No.

He finally turned to Molly. His eyes searched hers.

Mum says youre not well.

Molly nodded, the lump in her throat returning. Lydia briskly detailed her diagnosis.

Do you have the scans? The letters? Alexanders tone shifted to pure consultant. She handed over the medical file. He took it to the window, flicking through with the ruthless efficiency of someone whos stared at mortality for decades.

Its urgent, he said at last. You need surgery. Waiting around… its a death sentence.

I know, Molly choked out. But I cantpay

He fixed her with a soft, rare smile.

Molly, listen. I have a clinic, I have resources. Youre my family now. And for family, theres no such thing as paying. He paused, as if daring her to argue.

Molly couldnt speak, only nod as tears began rolling againtears of enormous, ridiculous luck. Not just luckrescue. From a love half a century old.

Lydia rose and pulled Molly into a motherly hug, tight and warm.

There, sweetheart. Now everythings going to be fine. Sandy, shell stay here to recover after her operation, yes? Ill look after her.

Of course, Mum, Alexander said, a slow smile breaking throughone that crinkled in the corners, just like Uncle George.

And looking at them both, Molly felt her dread subside, replaced by a brave new certainty shed only ever read about in library books: She was not alone. She had a familyand life was finally opening its doors again.