**”Is He My Son?”**
Polly climbed the stairs to the second floor of the office, relieved not to bump into any colleagues. She couldn’t bear the pitying looks or the awkward questions. Slipping into her office, she shut the door behind her.
“Polly, there you are!” chirped Helen Whitmore, her longtime coworker. “You’ve missed all the drama! Mr. Thompson’s been ‘retired,’ and they’ve brought in a new director—young, strict, clearing out the old guard. I swear, I’m next. How’s little Jack? Any better?”
Polly sank into her chair, casting a tired glance around the room. She could feel Helen’s eyes on her, waiting.
“Come off it, Helen. Who’ll do the work if he sacks everyone? They’ll fire me first—I’m always off with Jack. He needs a bone marrow transplant. We don’t have the money, and the charity waiting lists are miles long. The doctors say time’s running out. And they need a donor. I’m not a match, and Mum’s too old…”
“Good Lord, what’s that poor boy done to deserve this?” Helen gasped, genuinely shaken. “Have you tried finding his father?”
“And what then? Even if I do, why would he agree? It’s not a minor procedure. And he’d never believe Jack is—”
The door swung open. Alice from HR stood there, clutching a folder. Both women froze, tension thick in the air.
“I heard you were back. Polly, I’m so sorry to do this now, but there’s an order…” She faltered.
“Go on,” Polly said flatly, bracing herself. *Here it comes.*
Alice glanced at Helen, as if pleading for backup.
“What, the new director’s sacking me too? No bloody way.” Polly shot up so fast she nearly knocked Alice over, storming past her into the hall.
Alice called after her, but Polly’s heels were already clicking down the corridor. A few latecomers greeted her—she barely registered them. *No. He can’t do this. He has no right…*
She barged into the reception area and froze. Behind the desk sat a polished, glamorous young woman, straight out of a glossy magazine—fresh-faced, flawless, the top buttons of her blouse undone just enough.
“Where’s Margaret?” Polly demanded.
The girl flashed a perfect smile, but Polly didn’t wait for an answer. She grabbed the door handle.
“Stop! You can’t go in—he’s in a meeting!” The secretary darted forward, but Polly was already inside.
The director’s office fell silent. The glossy secretary scuttled in after her.
“It’s not my fault, Mr. Edwards! She just—”
“That’s enough, Lucy. Leave us.” The director cut her off. Lucy vanished.
Polly knew him instantly, though twelve years had passed since their last meeting. His blank stare told her he didn’t recognize her. At first, it stung. Then she decided it was for the best.
“Take a seat,” he said coolly.
Polly remained standing. “I’m Polly Anne Harris from marketing. On what grounds are you firing me? My son is ill—I have to take him to hospital. Mr. Thompson understood. He let me work remotely. I *need* this job.”
The director leaned back in his leather chair, studying her. She stumbled over her words, suddenly self-conscious. *Mr. Thompson had a bloody wooden chair.*
“I was told your *daughter* was sick. Sympathies, but your absences disrupt the team. Is that fair?” His tone was patronising, like scolding a child.
“Son,” Polly corrected sharply.
“Pardon?”
“I have a son. Not a daughter. He’s dying. If you sack me, we’ve got nothing.” Her voice broke, despite herself.
“You got kids? A mother? If they were sick, would *you* be here?” Polly met his gaze, unflinching.
“What’s wrong with your boy?” he asked, indifferent.
“Leukaemia. Know what that is?” Her voice wobbled, but she held his stare.
“Have we met before? You seem familiar.” His eyes narrowed.
Polly’s pulse spiked. Too long a pause would get her thrown out.
“I… We were at uni together. New Year’s Eve? I visited a friend in halls… You played guitar. Then we—” She flushed and looked away.
“Polly?” *Finally. He remembers. But does he remember what came after?*
“Didn’t recognize you. Sorry.” He shifted to casual *you*. “How can I help?”
“Don’t sack me. Jack needs that transplant. I’ve nowhere else to turn.” She covered her face, hiding the tears.
“No husband, I take it.”
Polly dropped her hands. They locked eyes. Then Paul stood, rounded the desk, and stepped closer.
“Is he my son?”
“No,” she said too quickly. The last thing she needed was him thinking she’d trapped him.
“Where’s his father?”
“What does it matter? May I go?” She straightened, turned to leave.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he called after her.
Back in her office, Helen pounced. “Well?”
“It’s fine,” Polly sighed.
“Course it is. He’s not a monster. He’s got a mother too.”
But Polly was remembering that New Year’s Eve—snow falling, fairy lights glowing, his lips sweet with chocolate. He’d played guitar so beautifully. The girls whispered his father was somebody important. Paul had chosen a distant uni to escape the name.
She’d been a fool to think he loved her. When he vanished after the holidays—transferred, rumours said—she never looked for him. Too proud. She’d raised Jack alone.
And now? Fate made him her boss. *No. Jack’s mine. I’ll do whatever it takes.*
At home, her mother fretted over Jack, who lay pale and frail.
“Dinner’s ready!” her mum called when the doorbell rang.
Polly froze. Paul stood in the doorway.
“You?”
“I wanted to see him.” His gaze landed on a photo—Jack at nine, healthy, grinning.
“Tea? Or I’ve got chicken and mash?” her mother offered.
“Starving. Hotel food’s grim,” he admitted.
As he ate, Polly watched, tense.
“Mum, who’s here?” Jack called weakly.
Paul followed her in. The boy was ghostly thin, dark circles under his eyes.
“I’m Paul. You must be Jack.”
“Who’re you?”
“Your mum’s boss.”
“You won’t sack her, will you?”
Paul frowned. “Who told you that?”
“Mum said you could. ‘Cause she’s always off with me.”
“Not a chance. I’ve spoken to a London clinic—they’ll operate soon. You’ll be running again.”
“And the money?”
“Sorted. Now, I need to talk to your mum.”
Back in the hall, Paul turned to her. “He’s mine, isn’t he? That photo… It’s like looking at myself.” He handed her a test tube. “Get a sample. If it’s a match, I’ll donate. I *know* he’s mine.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Do you want him to live?”
Polly’s mother nudged her. She returned minutes later, jaw clenched.
“He’s Jack’s dad? Thank God,” her mum wept after Paul left.
“Is he my dad?” Jack whispered when Polly tucked him in. “Did he say yes?”
“Sick kids hear everything,” he said, too wise for his years.
Two days later, they drove to London. In the backseat, Jack slept. Paul spoke quietly—his father had forced a marriage of convenience. It ended, childless. His father disowned him. Polly confessed how she’d waited, how she’d learned she was pregnant…
“Thank you,” she murmured as London’s skyline appeared.
“Don’t. Not till he’s safe.”
The transplant succeeded. Weeks later, a recovered Jack grinned behind a camera—Paul’s gift.
One evening, Paul pulled Polly aside. “Marry me. Think about it. Talk to Jack, your mum.”
“You don’t owe us—”
“It’s not about owing. Thank you for keeping him.” He held her tight. “I’ve never been happier.”
At home, her mum smirked. “Well? Did he propose?”
Polly beamed. “He did.”
“And you refused, proud as ever?”
“Too much’s happened. He said to ask you and Jack.”
“Ask what?” Jack peeked in. “I say yes. I want a dad.”
Soon, they moved into Paul’s new flat. Jack’s walls were plastered with photos. Some nights, Polly still pinched herself.
“Learn to be happy,” Paul would whisper. “We’re tested soAnd as Jack’s laughter filled their home, Polly finally allowed herself to believe that sometimes, even the deepest wounds could heal—if you were brave enough to let love in.
