I Will Always Love You.
Emma barely manages to make it home, stumbling down the corridor and steadying herself against the walls. Her head is spinning so badly that dark patches flicker before her eyes. She fumbles desperately in her handbag, searching for the keys, silently berating herself for losing her composure in the doctors office. But who could stay calm after news like this?
Dr. Harris lays the MRI scans on the table and speaks with a calmness that borders on indifference.
Miss Edwards, its quite serious. An aneurysm. The wall of the artery is as thin as a spiders thread. Imagine a balloon that could burst at any moment. Any stress, any surge in pressure An operation is absolutely necessary. Waiting for an NHS slot is playing Russian roulette. No one can say whether youve got enough time.
If if I pay privately? Emma manages to choke out, clutching the leather straps of her bag in her sweaty palms.
The doctor names a figure. The sum lands like a death sentence. Theres simply no way. Not in a hundred years. The debts left from Mum, the salary of a librarian in Reading, barely enough to scrape by She could sell a kidney, but she doubts anyone would give her that much.
Wait for a call from the NHS about a date, Dr. Harris says gently. And really try not to worry. Complete rest.
Rest?! Emma wants to scream. But she only nods, and leaves, feeling her knees buckle.
Now, leaning against the front door to Uncle Georges old flat, she tries to catch her breath. This flat is her inheritance. Her uncle, her dads eccentric brother and a lifelong recluse, left it to her after slipping away quietly in his sleep. To someone else, a treasure trove of antiques; to her, just another struggle.
I have to go through everything, she thinks, wandering through the cluttered rooms. Sell what I can. The old sideboard, china cabinetanything to scrape together the first payments for surgery.
The thought of simply waiting for the balloon in her head to burst is unbearable. She needs to do something. Anythingjust to escape the panic.
So she starts with the heavy desk in the sitting room. Oak, with deep drawers crammed with decades of papers. She grabs a rubbish sack and sets to work. Receipts from the nineties? Sack. Old bills? Sack. Manuals for irons and hoovers thrown away years ago? Sack.
She works mechanically, not letting herself think, just wanting to move. The pain in her head eases ever so slightly. In the deepest drawer, under a pile of yellowed issues of The Times, her fingers find something solid. She fishes out a threadbare cardboard folder, its faded ribbons tied in a knot.
Curiosity elbows aside her apathy. Emma unties the ribbons. Inside is a neat stack of letters. Not in envelopes, just sheets of lined paper, written in a sturdy, unmistakably male handUncle Georges.
She takes the one on top.
Dearest Lily,
Its been three months since you left. I cant accustom myself to it. I went to the institute today, and everything reminds me of you. The emptiness is overwhelming. I was a proud, stubborn boy. I shouldnt have let you go after that row. I have no idea where you are now. When I turned up at your old place, your flatmate only said youd all moved and nothing more. Im writing into the void, but I cant not write. Its the only thing that keeps me going.
Your George.
Emma freezes. She has always seen Uncle George as a dried-up old bachelor, more dust than man. But heresuch pain, such tenderness. She takes the next letter. And the next. Theyre all from the same year1972. In every letter, the story repeats itself: meeting, falling in love, a silly argument (he refused to ask her parents blessing, afraid of the responsibility), and Lily leaving with her family, destination unknown. He didnt know where to send the letters, so he simply wrote, promising eternal love.
Lily, Ill look for you. And if I cant find you, Ill love only youall my life.
And, by every account, he did. A lifelong bachelor, a lonely end.
Tears spring unbidden to Emmas eyes. Her heart aches for this man. In her compassion, a wild impulse sparks. But what if? What if Lily is still alive? To find her, tell her she was loved, that she was never forgotten.
A purpose. Something to chase. Suddenly, her own fear is eclipsed by this missionperhaps she can fix an old wrong.
Her mind buzzes with feverish possibilities. Theres no address. No surname. She reads the letters again. In one, a clue: Remember how we walked in the park by the Queens Hall? You always laughed at those stone lions outside your flat on Kingsley Road.
Kingsley Road. The Queens Hall. Emma pulls out her battered smartphone and searches. She finds photos of old buildings, a handful of red-bricked terraces topped with lions. Its not much, she needs a name.
She searches through the flat. In the bedrooms bedside table, she finds an old, leather-bound photo album. Theres young George, fair-haired, open-faced. In many photosa girl with two dark plaits and sparkling eyes. On the back of one group photo, written in blue ink: Group E-2, Polytechnic, 1971. Lily H., George, Peter.
Lily H. Just one letter, but its a start.
Now she becomes a digital detective. She trawls alumni databases, community message boards, social media archives. She types in Lily, surname beginning with H, birth year around 1950-52. The right town. She looks for maiden names.
Andluck! On a local history forum, an old thread about polytechnic graduates reads: My mum, Lily Harriet Johnson (née Hunt), finished the night school in 73
Hunt. Lily Hunt. Polytechnic. It fits. Her married name is Johnson.
Emma googles Lily Harriet Johnson. There she is! A short piece in a local newsletter for International Womens Day, with a photo. The article congratulates distinguished pensioners. In the picture, an older, dignified woman, her eyes clever and warm. Emma looks at the albums photo of young Lily. Yes, its herthe features changed by time, but the gaze is the same: clear and direct.
The article spills more: Lily Harriet Johnson lives in Rosemead village and is active in the council for pensioners.
Emmas heart hammers. She needs a proper address. She rings the Rosemead parish council, introduces herself as a community worker wanting to deliver an award, and easily gets the street and house number.
Emma doesnt remember packing. She throws the folder of letters and a bottle of water in her bag and takes the next coach from Reading. The ride takes forever. She churns over all possible scenarios in her head. What if Lily slams the door in her face? What if she thinks Emma is a con artist?
Rosemead greets Emma with calm, the air perfumed with apple blossom. The house is spotless, bright green fence, roses blooming along the path. Emma takes a shaky breath and presses the bell.
The door opens. There stands Lily Harriet Johnson. In person, she looks older, more fragile than in the newspaper.
Yes? Her voice is polite, but wary.
Hello, Mrs Johnson? Emmas voice quivers.
Yes. And you are?
My name is Emma. Im George Edwardss niece.
The change is instant. Mrs Johnson grips the doorframe, her knuckles turning white. For a moment, her serious face twists in pain and astonishment.
George? she whispers, so softly Emma almost doesnt hear. Which George?
George Edwards. He he died. A month ago.
Mrs Johnson moves aside mechanically, motioning her in. Emma steps into the tidy lounge. The hostess collapses into an armchair, her hand trembling.
Dead She stares into space. I wondered. Sometimes I combed through the obituaries Trying to see if my George
My George. The words squeeze Emmas chest.
Mrs Johnson, he he never stopped loving you.
Her eyes snap up, suddenly fierce, almost angry.
How would you know?
I found these, Emma says, pulling the folder from her bag. He wrote to you. Dozens of letters. They were in his desk.
Mrs Johnson takes the folder as if it might burn her. She unties the ribbons with shaking hands. She reads the first letter in silence. Then a tear falls. Then another. She doesnt wipe them away.
Silly, silly boy, she murmurs. Why? Why torture himself so?
He loved you, Emma replies softly. He never married.
I know, Mrs Johnson lifts tearful eyes. I found out, about fifteen years ago, from an old classmate. She said he was single, living alone. I I didnt dare reach out. Too ashamed. Too frightened.
Ashamed? Emma echoes.
I ran off back then. I left because I thought he didnt love me, didnt want a family. And I she breaks off, gripping the letter. I was pregnant, Emma.
Emma is frozen, speechless.
What? she barely croaks.
Yes. Two months goneI couldnt bring myself to tell him. After the fight I thought hed be scared, run away. So I fled. With my parents. Gave birth to a boy.
A heavy silence fills the room. Emma feels blood drain from her face.
Uncle George had a son? she stammers.
Mrs Johnson nods, gazing out the window.
Alexander grew up a remarkable man. I later married. My husband, Nicholas, knew. He took me and my son as his own. Wonderful man, always grateful to him. He gave Alex his name, loved him no less. But George her voice falters, George always lived here. She presses her fist to her chest. Always. I never forgot him. And Alex always knew who his biological father was.
Emma reels. She has a brother. A cousinher own flesh and blood.
And Alexander where is he now?
Hes a surgeon, Mrs Johnson says, pride and sorrow mingled in her tone. Quite well-known. Has his own London clinicMedArt, you may know it? Vascular specialist
She suddenly stops, her mothers eyes boring into Emma.
My dear, youre pale as a sheet. Are you unwell? Are you ill?
That simple, gentle my dear is so warm, so sincere, that Emma cant hold back the wave inside her. She never intended to tell, but the whole wretched story comes tumbling out, messy and desperate. The dizzy spells, the terrifying aneurysm diagnosis, the unpayable sum the doctor named, her hopeless wait for an NHS slot.
Mrs Johnson listens without interrupting, her face only growing more determined. When Emma finishes, swiping at tears, the older woman stands, walks over to the phone, and dials.
Alex, darling? she says, skipping any pleasantries. Come at once, will you? No, Im quite alright. Truly. But something miraculous has happened. A real miracle. You must come, son. Your sister is here.
Alexander arrives an hour and a half later. A tall, dignified man in his mid-forties, smartly but modestly dressed. He has those same piercing grey eyes as young George in the photos, the same light hair with silver at the temples.
Mum, whats going on? His low, calm voice carries firmness laced with concern. His eyes fall on Emma.
Alex, this is Emma. Emma Mrs Johnson now steady, speaks clearly, shes the daughter of your fathers brother. Your cousin.
Alexander stops in the doorway. His gaze moves from Emmas anxious, pale face, to the letters on the table, to his mother.
My father George Edwards? he asks, precisely.
Yes, Emma nods. I have his photos.
She shows him her phone with scans from the album. Alexander inspects the pictures, silent for a long moment, impassive, except for the tension clenching his jaw.
He never married? he asks quietly, not taking his eyes off the screen.
No, Emma whispers.
He meets her eye. His look is searching, heavy.
Mum says youre unwell.
Emma nods, the lump at her throat thickening. Mrs Johnson quickly summarises the diagnosis.
Have you got your scans and notes? Alexander asks, his voice shifting to professional confidence.
Emma silently hands over her medical records. He walks to the lamp for better lighting, reading each page with expert attention. At last, he puts the file down.
Surgery is critical, immediately, he states. Waiting is dangerous. Quite literally.
I know, Emma says softly. But the money
Tomorrow, nine oclock, my clinic, he interrupts. Ill send you the address. Theyll do the extra tests and prep you. The next morning, Ill operate myself.
I cant pay she starts, her face burning.
Alexander looks at her, and something unexpectedly gentle, almost fatherly, flickers in his eyes.
Emma, listen to me. I have everythingmy own clinic, plenty of money. But youre family. For family, theres no such thing as payment. Do you understand?
Emma cannot speak, only nod, her eyes streaming. This isnt just luck. This is salvation. A gift from the past, from a love that withstood nearly fifty years.
Mrs Johnson takes her in her arms. A firm, motherly hug.
Thats enough now, love. Youll be alright. Youll stay with us after the hospital, wont you, Alex? Her voice is full of hope.
Of course, Mum, Alexander smilesa relief and warmth Emma never expected. Shes part of our family now.
Looking at themher strict, kind brother, the old lady whose eyes, at last, have found peaceEmma feels her own fear melt away. What replaces it is something new, strange, and so welcome: certainty. She is not alone. Her life is just beginning.
