I will never forget you.
Lillian Brooks walked home in her unfastened wool coat, clutching a worn-out briefcase filled with her students’ notebooks. She would spend the evening marking essays.
Not long ago, the trees had only just budded, and now young leaves were unfurling. Nature was awakening under the warm spring sun. Soon, everything would burst into bloom.
Passersby greeted Lillian respectfully, and she responded with a reserved smile. She had taught most of them—or their children—English and literature at the local school.
She was still slender for her age, petite enough to be mistaken for a girl from behind. And her face wasn’t unpleasing. But who was there to marry in this place? So she lived alone in a small wooden cottage on a narrow lane. It had been given to her as work accommodation when she arrived twenty-five years ago from the city.
The town itself was tiny, more like a village. Nowadays, young teachers got flats in brick houses, but few wanted to stay—most headed for London or Manchester.
Lillian had grown attached to her home, though, and couldn’t bear to leave it. In her free time, she liked tending to the garden. When she first came, she knew nothing, but life had taught her—she could chop firewood, dig the garden, pickle cabbage, and bottle jam. Life had seen to that.
Life…
Back then, it had been spring too. Two young men sat under her dormitory window, arguing over how to spell a word. Both were wrong. Tired of their bickering, she leaned out and corrected them.
One of them, quick-witted, asked her to check his whole explanation. Lillian stepped outside, corrected his mistakes.
“Thank you. Lucky we ran into you. What’s your name?”
“Lillian.”
“I’m Edward. You’re training to be a teacher? We work nearby.”
“Teacher, instructor, or educator—‘teacher’ is fine,” she corrected.
She liked Edward. He reminded her of a bear—steady, dependable. When he proposed, she accepted without hesitation.
His mother disapproved.
“What will you do with her? Read books together? Bet she can’t cook. You’ll be miserable,” she muttered once Lillian left.
She wasn’t entirely wrong. Lillian could barely boil pasta or fry an egg—and even then, she’d forget them on the stove while lost in a book.
His mother, fearing her son would starve and her crockery would be ruined, took over the cooking. Lillian tried learning, and Edward, in turn, dressed smarter and cleaned up his language. For a while, they were happy.
A year later, their son was born—calm and sturdy, just like his father. Early, perhaps, but better now than when she was teaching. How could she take maternity leave mid-term? Here, it was done.
Her mother-in-law grew bolder, openly lamenting Edward’s choice. Lillian endured it silently, whispering her hurt to Edward at night.
“The important thing is I love you,” he’d say, kissing her.
Eager to work, Lillian planned to send little James to nursery.
“Over my dead body,” her mother-in-law snapped, quitting her job to care for him.
Lillian was grateful. She marked papers late into the night while her mother-in-law sighed loudly about useless daughters-in-law.
Maybe it wore Edward down, maybe he just grew tired of trying—but he started staying out. His clothes grew shabby, his speech rougher. He stopped touching her.
His mother took vicious delight in announcing his affair. The woman was a shopgirl—brassy, dyed red hair, thick eyeliner. She didn’t try to “improve” him. Just fed him rare treats from under the counter.
Lillian confronted him.
“Sorry, but we’re too different,” he mumbled, avoiding her eyes.
She went to the education board, asked for a transfer—anywhere. Mid-year, positions were scarce, but one opened when a young teacher fled a rural town. They promised housing. She took it, packed James, and left.
The old town was barely more than a hamlet. Her “housing” was a decrepit cottage with a collapsed woodshed. Fighting despair, she learned to chop wood, tend the garden, and haul water from the pump. James, delighted, chased neighbor’s cats through the blackberry bushes.
Edward paid child support but never visited. He married the shopgirl, had two daughters.
James left for university in the city, stayed with his father at first. Complained about cramped quarters, bratty sisters. The shopgirl clashed with his mother—screaming matches so loud neighbors pounded the walls. Edward moved his mum into his wife’s tiny flat. She never visited after that.
At first, James came home on holidays. Every time he stepped inside, Lillian flinched—he looked so like his father. The house grew dark, cramped. Now he’s a lead engineer, holidays on the Cornish coast or abroad. Alive, well, fine.
Across the road, builders were finishing a new house. Lillian paused, watching a tanned man in a vest fit window frames.
“Like it?” he asked, noticing her.
“Yes.”
“You live over there? Your porch needs fixing—roof’s about to leak.”
“It does in heavy rain.”
“Want me to do it?”
“Really? How much?”
“We’ll agree. Finishing this job next week. I’ll come by, see what else needs doing.”
Lillian flushed. He couldn’t be over forty. What did he want with her? She was near retirement. Still, she looked young—petite women aged slowly. But still…
She hurried home, seeing it anew—the sagging porch, the gate hanging by one hinge. She’d gotten used to it.
Two days later, he inspected the house, jotting notes.
“Saturday, then. Don’t worry about materials—I’ll find leftovers.” He nodded at the new build.
“I haven’t much money.”
“Don’t rush. Just feed me.”
She set the table, brought out half-finished wine.
“Only if you join me,” Michael grinned.
Over lunch, he admitted he’d left his wife, joined a construction crew traveling the region.
“Tired of drifting. I’m a homebody. Let me stay while I work—that’ll cover it.”
She hesitated. He didn’t seem a fraud. But the house needed repairs, and where else would she find help so cheap? Soon, the garden would need digging. She agreed.
Neighbors raised eyebrows but asked no questions. Work went swiftly—fresh green paint, a new porch. For weeks, she still reached to steady the repaired gate out of habit.
She liked Michael, though she’d never admit it. “Nearly a pensioner, acting like a girl,” she scolded herself.
Yet it happened naturally. Lillian brightened. During term, she pinned her hair up, but now it fell loose or in a girlish ponytail. She glowed like her refurbished home.
At first, they hid it. Then stopped bothering. They walked together, swam in the river, picked berries.
Some were happy for them. Others sneered.
“Plenty of lonely women here, prettier too—and he picks an old crow? No looks, no charm!”
Lillian ignored them. She didn’t try to change Michael—she loved him as he was. They say late love burns brightest, every day precious. She cherished it, knowing it couldn’t last.
Michael fixed roofs, built fences, took a steady job. The school turned a blind eye—if she left, who’d replace her? Young teachers fled to cities.
Three years passed in a blink.
One day, she came home to find him staring at the wall. Dread twisted her stomach.
“What?” she whispered.
“Sorry, Lily. My wife called. My son wants me back—didn’t even recognize his voice. She’s struggling with the kids.” He slid to his knees, buried his face in her apron. “I’m happy here. But I have to go. Let me.”
She didn’t cry. Packed his things—he’d accumulated so much, even bought a used car. She walked him out.
“I’ll never forget you. Call if you need anything fixed—though it shouldn’t break. Forgive me. Don’t hate me.”
He tucked a stray hair behind her ear, held her. Then drove away. She locked the gate, collapsed on the bed, wept. Three days later, pale and thin, she returned to work.
Everyone noticed her extinguished eyes, the sudden silver in her hair. They didn’t ask. They knew.
She waited for his call, phone always close. He couldn’t just forget her. But weeks, months passed. “Then he’s happy. Good,” she told herself.
She didn’t know. That same day, fifteen miles from town, his car hit an SUV full of drunk youths. The SUV’s bumper dented; his crumpled like paper. They pulled him out barely alive. He died before the ambulance came.
Every time she came home, she ran her hand over the porch and gate he’d built, sure his warmthYears later, when the grandkids played in her garden, Lillian would sometimes glance at the old gate, smile faintly, and whisper to the wind, “I never forgot you either.”
