I Will Love You Always

I shall love you always.

Emily had barely managed to make it home, steadying herself against the stairwell walls. Her head spun so wildly that black dots darted before her eyes. Rummaging feverishly through her handbag for the keys, she chastised herself inwardly for panicking in the doctors office. Yet, how was she supposed to keep calm?

Dr. Middleton had placed the MRI scans on the desk with practiced indifference. Her flat voice made the words seem even more dire:
Miss Bennett, the situation is grave. You have an aneurysm. The vessel wall is as thin as cobweb. Imagine a balloon ready to burst any second. Any stress, any pressure… An operation is urgently needed. Waiting for a place through the NHS is a gamble. We cannot know if you have that much time.

Emily swallowed hard, her clammy hands wringing the strap of her bag. What if if I pay privately? she managed to whisper.

The doctor named a figure. It landed like a sentence. Emily could never hope for so muchshe hadnt seen that much money in her life. Penniless after her mothers passing, debts collecting, her meagre salary as a librarian just enough to get by. She might have sold a kidney, but even then it would hardly cover such a sum.

Wait for the call about an NHS opening, Dr. Middleton advised gently, and try not to worry. Complete rest.

Rest?! Emily wanted to scream. But she just nodded and left, her legs shaking under her as she made her way home.

Leaning now against her late Uncle Alfreds flat door, she tried to catch her breath. This flather inheritance. Uncle Alfred, the familys odd recluse and her fathers brother, had quietly left her this cluttered, musty three-bedroom council flat after his passing. For some, a trove of antiquities; for Emily, just another worry.

I need to sort everything out, she thought, shuffling through the crammed rooms. Sell some thingsmaybe the old sideboard or the china cabinet. Gather enough for the first payment to the clinic, at least.

The thought of simply waiting with a balloon in her skull ready to burst drove her nearly mad. She needed action, any actionto keep her mind busy.

She started in the sitting room at the heavy oak writing deskwide drawers stuffed full. She picked up a black bin bag. Utility bills from the 1980s? In the bag. Outdated accounts? In the bag. Manuals for irons and hoovers which had long rusted away? In the bag.

She worked without thinking, mechanical, just to keep moving. The grip in her temples slowly loosened. At the very bottom drawer, beneath a pile of yellowing editions of *The Times*, her fingers found something hard. She tugged out an old cardboard document folder, its edges rubbed pale, tied with faded ribbons.

Curiosity got the better of gloom. Emily untied the knots. Inside lay a neat bundle of lettersnot in envelopes, just page after page of masculine handwriting. Familiarthe script of Uncle Alfred.

She took the top sheet.

My dearest Florence,
Its now been three months since you left. I cannot get used to it. Today I was at the college, and everything reminded me of you. Emptiness everywhere. I was proud, a foolish boy. I shouldnt have let you go after that quarrel. I dont know where you are now. When I went by, your flatmate told me only that you’d moved away, nothing more. I write as if into a void, but I have to write. Its the one thing I am holding on to.
Yours always, Alfred

Emily froze. She had always thought of Uncle Alfred as an eccentric, a crusty loner. And yetsuch pain, such tenderness. She read one letter, then another, all dated from 1972the same sorrow repeated: their meeting, their love, the fateful row (hed refused to go ask her parents blessing for marriage, daunted by the responsibility), then Florences departure with her family, destination unknown. He hadnt known her address. He wrote these letters to nowhere, swearing eternal love. History.

Florence, I shall look for you. If I cannot find you, I shall love no other. All my life.

And it seemed hed kept his word. A lifelong bachelor. Alone in his last days.

Tears slid unwilling down Emilys cheeks. She felt a deep, aching pity for the man. Out of that sadness was born a wild, insistent idea. What if? What if Florence was still alive? She could find her. Say that she was remembered and loved.

A purposepalpable and preciserose to break through her own fear. Here was a chance to redress an old wrong.

Her mind buzzed furiously. No surname or address in the letters. She reread them. One line caught her eye: Remember our walks in the park by the old School of Arts? You always laughed at those stone lions outside your building on Victoria Road.

Victoria Road. School of Arts. Emily searched the internet on her battered phone. Found it. Photos of old buildings. A handful of post-war flats with carved lions. Not much to go on. She needed a name.

She rushed to the bedroom, rifled through the bedside drawer, and found a leather photo album. There was a young, blond Uncle Alfred, open-faced. In many photos, there was a girlwith jet-black plaits and shining eyes. On the back of one group shot, in faded ink: Group E-2, Polytech, 1971. Florence G., Alfred, Charles.

Florence G. Only an initial, but it was something.

The trail became digital. She trawled through alumni records, forums, archives. She entered: Florence, G, birth year c.1950-52, city. Searched for mentions of maiden names.

Andfortune! On a local history forum, amidst Polytech graduate discussions, she read: My mother, Florence Genevieve Holloway (née Grant), graduated from evening classes in 1973

Grant. Florence Grant. Everything matched. Her married name: Holloway.

Emily googled Florence Genevieve Holloway. There! A small feature in the community chronicle, praising her work with the senior council, with a photographsilver-haired and stern, but with wise, kind eyes. Emily checked the album. The same womanolder, but the candour in her stare, unchanged.

The news article mentioned she lived in the village of Appleford and was active on the committee for veterans affairs.

Emilys heart skipped. She needed an exact address! She rang the Appleford parish office, pretending to be a community worker sent to deliver a commendation. With little trouble, she got the street and house number.

She could hardly recall how she packedfolder of letters, bottle of water in her satcheland left for the coach terminal. The journey felt endless. She rehearsed every possible outcome. What if Florence refused to see her? Accused her of running a scam?

Appleford greeted her in thick silence and the scent of blossom. The right house had a neat hedge, lawn, and a riot of roses about the porch. Emily took a steadying breath, legs trembling, and pressed the bell.

Florence herself opened the gatefrailer and older than in the newsprint, but unmistakable.

Yes? Her voice was careful but watchful.

Mrs Holloway? Emilys voice betrayed her.

Thats me. And you are?

My name is Emily Bennett. Im the niece of Alfred Bennett.

Instantly, the womans fingers locked white around the gate. Her face twisted in an instant of grief and disbelief.

Alfred? she whispered, so softly Emily almost missed it. Which Alfred?

Alfred John Bennett. He he passed away. Last month.

Florence Holloway stepped back, wordlessly inviting entry. Emily followed, into the warm, quiet house. The lady sank into an armchair; her hands trembled.

Passed away Florence stared into the middle distance. And I I always wondered. Checked the papers at times, flicked through the obituaries Wondered if my Alfred were alive.

My Alfred. The words squeezed Emilys heart anew.

Mrs Holloway, he he never forgot you.

The old womans gaze snapped to her, a flash of hurt and anger in her eyes.

How do you know that?

I found these, Emily said, yielding the folder, all of them written to you. He kept them, all these years.

Florence took the papers as one might lift something fragile and dangerous. She loosened the ribbons with effort and read. She read in utter silence. Then tears rolled down her cheeks. She did not wipe them away.

Foolish, foolish boy, she murmured. Why torment himself so?

He loved you, Emily said softly, and never married.

I know, Florence looked up, her eyes wet. I found out, fifteen years ago or so. Ran into an old classmate. She said he was unmarried, alone. I I couldnt go see him. Was too shamed. Afraid.

Shamed? puzzled Emily.

I left, you see. I thoughthe didnt love me, didnt want a family. But I Florence faltered, gripping the letter, I was expecting, Emily.

Emily was struck dumb.

What? she finally choked out.

Yes. Two months along and couldnt tell him. After our quarrel I thought hed panic, run. So I ran first. Went with my parents. Had a son.

A heavy hush filled the room. Emily felt the colour drain from her skin.

So Uncle Alfred has a son? she whispered.

Florence nodded, gazing out the window.

Alexander turned out wonderfully. I married. My husband, Nigel, knew all. Raised Alexander as his own. I owe him a lifetime of gratitude. He gave Alexander his name, loved him as if truly his. But Alfred her voice grew shaky, Alfred was always here, she clenched a fist over her heart, all my life. I never forgot. And Alexander always knew who his father was.

Emily sat, trying to process the wave of revelations. She had a brother. A cousinby blood.

And Alexander, where is he now?

Hes a surgeon, with proud sadness, Florence said. Very respected. His own clinic in the cityMedhart. You may have heard of it? Specialises in vascular surgery

She fell quiet, looking at Emily with motherly concern.

My dear, youre as white as a sheet. Are you quite well? Are you ill?

That gentle, caring my dear undid Emily completely. She had not intended to share, but the words poured outabout the dizzy spells, the terrifying diagnosis, the impossible figure the doctor had said, the endless wait for the NHS.

Florence listened in silence, her face growing more and more resolute. When Emily finished, wiping her eyes, Florence stood, went to the phone and dialled.

Alex? Please come, now. No, Im perfectly fine. But theres been a miracleyes, a real one. Please, son. You must meet your sister.

…

They met ninety minutes later. The door opened to a tall, composed man in a well-tailored but understated suit, with grey-flecked fair hair and piercing grey eyesthe very image of young Uncle Alfred. About forty-five, perhaps.

Mum, what is it? His voice was low and calm, but concern flickered in his eyes. He glanced at Emily.

Alex, this is Emily. Emily, Florence steadied herself, is the daughter of your fathers brother. Your cousin.

Alexander stopped at the threshold, his eyes searching Emilys face, flicking to the folder of letters, to his mother.

My father was Alfred Bennett? He spoke the words as much to himself as to her.

Yes, Emily said. I have photos, too. She handed over her phone with the images of the album. Alexander studied them intently, in silence, his jaw a little taut.

He never married? he asked quietly, not looking up.

No, Emily managed.

He finally met her gaze. It was weighty, watchful.

Mum said you are ill.

Emily nodded, tears returning as she tried to speak. Florence briefly explained the diagnosis.

You have the scans? The results? said Alexander, his tone suddenly professional. Emily produced the folder. He carried it to a lamp for better light and read, eyebrows knitting. At last, he replaced the papers.

The operation should be done at once, he declared. Waiting is as good as a death sentence.

I know, Emily whispered, but the cost

Tomorrow, nine oclock, my clinic, he cut her off gently. Ill send you the details. All tests will be done, youll be prepped. Ill operate day after tomorrow.

I I cant pay Emily began, cheeks burning.

Alex looked at hersomething comforting, almost paternal, lit his eyes.

Emily, listen. I have all I need: clinic, resources. You are family now. He paused. And to family, theres no such thing as money owed. Understood?

Emily could only nod, helpless as tears spilled anew. This wasnt luckthis was salvation. Salvation born of a love almost half a century old.

Florence rose and hugged her warmly.

There there, dear, everything will be just fine now. Then she looked at her son. Alex, shell stay with us after hospital? Ill care for her.

Of course, Mum. Alexander smiled, his relief and warmth lighting up his features. Emily realised in that moment: she truly belonged here.

Looking at themher steadfast cousin, and the elderly woman whose lifelong sorrow had at last easedEmily felt her own fears begin to slip away. In their place was a new, shining certainty: she was not alone. And ahead of her, the gift of life itself awaited.