I Will Love You Always
Masha barely made it home, steadying herself against the walls in the stairwell. Her head was spinning so badly that dark spots floated across her vision. She rummaged frantically through her bag, trying to find her keys, mentally scolding herself for panicking in the doctor’s office. But how could she not panic?
Doctor Ivanova, placing the MRI scans on the desk, spoke calmly, almost apathetically:
“Maria Sergeevna, the situation is serious. An aneurysm. The vessel wall is as thin as a cobweb. Imagine a balloon that is about to burst. Any stress, any pressure… You need surgery urgently. Waiting for a state quota is Russian roulette. We don’t know if you have enough time.”
“A… and if I pay for it?” Masha managed to say, clutching the strap of her bag with sweaty hands.
The doctor named the amount. The number sounded like a sentence.
Masha didn’t have that kind of money and never could. Poverty after her mother’s death, debts, her tiny librarian’s salary… She could have sold a kidney, but even that wouldn’t bring such a sum.
“Wait for the call about the quota,” Ivanova said gently. “And try not to be nervous. Complete rest.”
What rest?! Masha wanted to scream. But she only nodded and walked out, feeling her legs buckle beneath her.
Now, leaning against the door of Uncle Vasya’s apartment, she tried to catch her breath. This apartment was her inheritance.
Uncle Vasya—an eternal recluse, an oddball, her father’s brother—had left her this three-room Khrushchev-era flat filled to the brim with junk after his quiet death. For some it might be a treasure trove of antiques; for her, it was just another problem.
“I need to sort everything,” she thought, wandering through the cluttered rooms. “Sell something. Maybe the old cabinet, the buffet… Collect at least the first payments for the clinic.”
The idea of simply sitting and waiting for the “balloon” in her head to burst drove her crazy. She needed action. Any action. Anything to distract herself.
Masha started with the writing desk in the living room. Massive, oak, with drawers stuffed to the top with papers. She grabbed a trash bag and got to work. Receipts from the ’90s? Into the bag. Old bills? Into the bag. Technical manuals for irons and vacuum cleaners long since rotted away in some landfill? Into the bag.
She worked mechanically, without thinking—just to keep moving. The pain in her head slowly eased. In the lowest, deepest drawer, under a stack of yellowed Pravda newspapers, her fingers touched something solid. Masha pulled out an old cardboard folder, worn at the corners, tied with faded strings.
Curiosity overpowered her apathy. Masha untied the strings. Inside was a neat stack of letters. Not in envelopes—just written sheets. The handwriting was even, masculine, familiar—the handwriting of Uncle Vasya.
She took the top page.
“Dear Lidochka,
It’s been three months since you left. I still can’t get used to it. I was at the institute today, and everything reminded me of you. Emptiness. I was arrogant, a foolish boy. I shouldn’t have let you leave after that quarrel.
I don’t know where you are now. Your neighbor said only that you’d moved away, nothing more. I’m writing to you like into a void, but I can’t stop. It’s the only thing keeping me going.
Yours, Vasya.”
Masha froze. She had always imagined Uncle Vasya as a dry, detached eccentric. But here… such pain, such tenderness. She picked up the next letter. And the next. All dated the same year—1972. The story repeated itself each time: they met, they fell in love, there was a cruel quarrel over a trifle (he refused to go to the girl’s parents to ask for their blessing for marriage—afraid of responsibility), and Lida left with her family for an unknown place.
He didn’t know her address and wrote letters he had nowhere to send. In them he swore eternal love.
“Lida, I will search for you. If I don’t find you, I will love only you. All my life.”
And apparently he kept his word. An old bachelor, a lonely death.
Tears rolled down Masha’s cheeks. She felt an aching pity for this man. And from that pity came an obsessive, almost mad idea. What if? What if she was still alive? To find her. To tell her she had been loved, remembered.
It was a concrete task, a goal that overshadowed her own fear. A chance to correct an old mistake.
Her thoughts raced feverishly. No address. No last name. She reread the letters. One of them had a clue:
“Remember how we walked in the park near the Palace of Pioneers? You always laughed at those stone lions by the entrance to your building on Kirov Street.”
Kirov Street. Palace of Pioneers. Masha looked it up on her old smartphone. She found it. Photos of old buildings. Several Stalin-era houses with stone decorations resembling lions. Not enough. She needed a name.
She began rummaging through the apartment. In the bedroom, in the nightstand beside the bed, she found an old leather-bound photo album. A young Uncle Vasya—fair-haired, open-faced. And in many photos—her. A girl with two dark braids and radiant eyes.
On the back of one photograph, showing a group of young people, someone had written in ink:
“Group E-2, Polytechnic, 1971. Lida G., Vasya, Seryoga.” “Lida G.”
Just one letter! But it was already something.
What followed was digital detective work. She searched in databases, on forums, in social-media archives. She typed in “Lidiya,” “G” (assuming the last name began with that letter), and a birth year around 1950–1952. The city. She looked for mentions of maiden names.
And—oh, luck! On a local-history forum, in a discussion about Polytechnic graduates, she found:
“My mother, Lidiya Gennadyevna Semyonova (née Gordeeva), graduated from the evening department in 1973…”
Gordeeva. Lidiya Gordeeva. Polytechnic. Everything matched. Her married surname was Semyonova.
Masha googled “Lidiya Gennadyevna Semyonova.” And found her! A small article in a district newspaper for International Women’s Day, with a photograph. They were congratulating honored labor veterans.
A gray-haired, stern-looking woman—but with intelligent, kind eyes. Masha immediately found a photo of young Lida in the album. Yes, it was her. Age had changed her features, but her gaze remained the same—clear and direct.
The article mentioned that Lidiya Gennadyevna lived in the settlement of Solnechny and was actively involved in the veterans’ council.
Masha’s heart pounded. An address! She needed the exact address! She called the settlement administration, introduced herself as a social worker who needed to deliver an award certificate, and easily found out the street and house number.
Masha barely remembered how she got ready. She threw the folder of letters and a bottle of water into her bag and headed to the bus station. The road felt endless. She kept imagining possible scenarios. What if the woman wouldn’t receive her? Drove her away? Thought she was a scammer?
The settlement of Solnechny greeted Maria with quiet streets and the smell of blooming apple trees. The house with the right number turned out to be neat, with a green fence and magnificent roses in the yard. Masha took a deep breath, feeling her knees tremble, and pressed the doorbell.
The gate was opened by Lidiya Gennadyevna. In person she looked older and more fragile than in the photo.
“Yes?” Her voice was calm but wary.
“Hello, Lidiya Gennadyevna?” Masha’s voice trembled uncontrollably.
“Yes. And who are you?”
“My name is Maria. I… am the niece of Vasily Orlov.”
The effect was immediate. The woman’s hand clenched the gate handle so tightly her fingers turned white. Her serious face twisted for a moment with pain and shock.
“Vasiliy?” she whispered so quietly that Masha barely heard it. “Which Vasiliy?”
“Vasiliy Sergeevich. He… he passed away. A month ago.”
Lidiya Gennadyevna stepped back slowly, mechanically, and gestured for her to come in. Masha walked through the yard and into the cozy house. The woman sank into an armchair, her hand trembling involuntarily.
“He died…” she stared into emptiness. “And I… I kept wondering. Sometimes I checked newspapers, read obituaries… Wondering if my Vasya was still alive.”
My Vasya. Those words squeezed Masha’s heart all over again.
“Lidiya Gennadyevna, he… he never forgot you.”
The woman looked up sharply, and in her eyes flashed not belief, but almost anger.
“How do you know?”
“I found this,” Masha took the folder from her bag and handed it to her. “He wrote to you. A lot. All those years. They were in his desk.”
Lidiya Gennadyevna took the folder as if it were something fragile and dangerous. Her fingers struggled to untie the strings. She pulled out the first letter and began reading. She read silently, without lifting her eyes. Then a tear rolled down her cheek. Then another. She didn’t wipe them away.
“Foolish, foolish boy,” her voice broke into a whisper. “Why? Why torment himself like this?”
“He loved you,” Masha said softly. “He never married.”
“I know,” Lidiya Gennadyevna lifted her tear-filled eyes to her. “About fifteen years ago I learned something about him. I ran into a former classmate. She told me he was single, living alone. I… I didn’t dare go to him. I was ashamed. I was scared.”
“Ashamed?” Masha didn’t understand.
“I left back then. I left because I decided he didn’t love me, didn’t want a family. And I…” She fell silent, clutching the letter in her hands. “And I was pregnant, Masha.”
Masha froze, unable to say a single word.
“What?” she finally whispered.
“Yes. Two months along, and I didn’t know how to tell him. And after that quarrel… I thought he’d just get scared and run. So I ran first. With my parents. I had a son.”
A heavy silence filled the room. Masha felt the blood drain from her face.
“Uncle Vasya… had a son?” she managed to squeeze out.
Lidiya Gennadyevna nodded, looking out the window.
“Aleksandr grew up to be a wonderful man. I got married. My husband, Nikolai, he… he knew. He accepted me and my child. He’s a good man; I’m grateful to him all my life. He gave Sasha his last name, loved him as his own. But Vasya…” her voice trembled again, “Vasya was here,” she pressed her fist to her chest. “All my life. I never forgot him. And Sasha always knew who his biological father was.”
Masha sat, trying to process the avalanche of information. She had a brother. A cousin brother. A blood relative.
“And… Aleksandr… where is he now?”
“He’s a surgeon,” Lidiya Gennadyevna said with pride and sorrow in her voice. “A very well-known one. He has his own clinic in the city. MedArt, you’ve probably heard of it? They specialize in vascular surgery…”
She suddenly fell silent and looked at Masha attentively, with a mother’s gaze.
“My child, you’re white as a sheet. Are you feeling unwell? Are you sick?”
That simple, caring “my child” sounded so warm, so sincere that Masha’s nerves gave way completely. She hadn’t planned to say anything, but the words spilled out—broken, tangled. She told her everything. The dizziness, the terrifying diagnosis of “aneurysm,” the sum the doctor had named, her despair, and her hopeless wait for the quota.
Lidiya Gennadyevna listened without interrupting, and her face grew more and more resolute. When Masha finished, wiping her tears, the older woman stood firmly, walked to the landline phone, and dialed a number.
“Sasha?” she said without preamble. “Come to my house immediately. No, I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine. But a miracle has happened. A real miracle. Come, my son. You need to meet your sister.”
The meeting happened an hour and a half later. A tall, fit man in an expensive yet understated suit entered the door. He was about forty-five, with the same piercing gray eyes young Uncle Vasya had in the photographs, and the same fair hair with streaks of gray.
“Mom, what happened?” His voice was low and steady, but worry showed in his eyes. He glanced at Masha.
“Sasha, this is Maria. Masha,” Lidiya Gennadyevna composed herself and spoke clearly. “She is the daughter of your father’s brother. Your cousin.”
Aleksandr froze in the doorway. His gaze slid over Masha’s pale, anxious face, the folder of letters on the table, his mother’s expression.
“My father… Vasiliy Orlov?” he said slowly.
“Yes,” Masha nodded. “I have his photographs.”
She handed him her phone with the scanned album pages. Aleksandr took it. He looked at the photos silently, for a long time. His face was unreadable, but Masha noticed the clench of his jaw.
“He never married?” he asked quietly, without looking up.
“No,” Masha whispered.
He lifted his eyes to her. His gaze was heavy, searching.
“Mom said you’re ill.”
Masha nodded, feeling the lump rise in her throat again. Lidiya Gennadyevna summarized the diagnosis.
“Do you have the scans? The report?” Aleksandr asked, and his voice now carried professional firmness.
Without a word, Masha took the folder with her medical documents from her bag. He took it, stepped closer to the floor lamp for better light, and began reading. He examined every page, every line. Finally, he set the folder aside.
“Surgery is urgently needed,” he said plainly. “Waiting is the same as signing your own death sentence. Literally.”
“I know,” Masha whispered. “But the money…”
“Tomorrow at nine in the morning, be at my clinic,” he interrupted. “I’ll send you the address. They’ll run all the necessary additional tests and prepare you. The day after tomorrow, in the morning, I will operate on you.”
“I won’t be able to… to pay…” Masha began, feeling her face burn.
Aleksandr looked at her, and something warm—almost paternal—appeared in his eyes.
“Masha, listen to me carefully. I have everything: a clinic, money. And you are my family now.”
He paused.
“In my family, there is no such word as ‘pay.’ Understood?”
Masha couldn’t speak; she could only nod as tears streamed down her cheeks on their own. This wasn’t just luck. It was salvation. Salvation that came from the past—from a love nearly half a century old.
Lidiya Gennadyevna came over and hugged her. Firmly, like a mother.
“It’s all right now, my dear. Everything will be fine.” Then she looked at her son.
“Sasha, she’ll stay with us for the first days after the hospital, won’t she? I’ll take care of her.”
“Of course, Mom,” Aleksandr smiled, and in that smile was so much relief and warmth that Masha understood—she was now part of this family too.
And looking at them—the strict brother, the elderly woman whose lifelong sorrow had finally quieted—Masha felt her own fear retreating. Replaced by a new, unfamiliar, and deeply desired certainty:
She was not alone.
And ahead of her—was life.
