**Diary Entry**
Polly had always been a well-behaved child—good grades, no trouble for Mum or Gran. But everything changed in her final year of school when she fell in love. She started skipping classes, talking back, wearing heavy makeup. One day, Veronica stumbled upon expensive cosmetics in her daughter’s drawer.
“Who gave you these?” she asked.
“A friend,” Polly shrugged.
“Must be a generous one. Who?”
“Anton.”
“Oh? Where does a schoolboy get that kind of money?” Veronica assumed he was a classmate.
“He’s not in school. He works.”
Just like that, Veronica realised her daughter wasn’t dating some teenage boy, but a grown man with a degree and a job.
“You’re too young for this,” Veronica argued.
“I’m not! You were my age when you had me, weren’t you?”
Veronica blinked, stunned. “You’re not… pregnant, are you?”
Polly’s eyes filled with tears. “Yes, Mum. Like mother, like daughter, right? You always said I took after you.”
Veronica stared in horror. Polly grabbed her coat.
“Wait! We’re not done talking!” Veronica chased her to the door. “What about your homework? Exams are coming up!”
Polly spun around, blowing a strand of hair from her face. “Homework? Really? And you—who’s *your* late-night secret? Think I don’t know?”
Veronica had thought herself careful, that Polly was too self-absorbed to notice. With a smug look, Polly stormed out.
“Polly!” Veronica’s voice cracked as the door slammed.
She sank onto the sofa. Her little girl was grown—and now so were the problems. Pregnant. God, no. She should’ve talked to her sooner, but she’d still seen her as a child. It wasn’t too late. She needed help—who else but Mum?
“Mum, it’s a disaster,” Veronica spilled over the phone. “Polly’s seeing some older bloke. She’s pregnant.”
“You sure you’re not overreacting?”
“She admitted it! I don’t know how to talk to her—”
“She’s just like you. You never listened either. Should’ve married that… what was his name?”
“I didn’t love him! This isn’t about me!”
“It is. If you’d married, Polly’d have a father. She wouldn’t be looking for one now.”
Veronica exhaled. “Mum… why didn’t you let me have an abortion?”
“Do you regret having Polly?”
“No, never, but—”
“Then stop. Imagine life without her. Don’t yell at her—you’ll only push her away.”
They talked for ages. Veronica waited up. When Polly returned, Veronica stepped into her room as she pulled off her sweatshirt. Her stomach—once flat—now had the slightest curve. It was true.
“How far along? Three months?” Veronica whispered.
Polly flinched, clutching the jumper to her belly.
“Sweetheart…” Veronica hugged her. “I’m not angry. I just want to help.”
Tears spilled over. “He *promised* I wouldn’t get pregnant.”
“Does he know?”
Polly nodded.
“So what now?”
“He’s good, Mum. We’ll marry after exams. He rents a flat nearby—he’s from up north, finished uni last year.”
“You’re keeping it? What about *your* studies?”
“I’ll go later,” Polly mumbled.
“Get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.” Veronica left, her own teenage years flashing back.
She’d fancied a boy at school—nothing serious. Then, at his house party (parents away, of course), drinks, dancing. She’d felt ill. He’d put her to bed… then taken advantage. She’d hoped no consequences. Hope wasn’t enough.
His parents blamed *her* for seducing their precious boy. *The apple doesn’t fall far…*
“And what’s *that* supposed to mean?” Mum had shot back. “My husband died when Polly was three. Heart attack. Maybe teach your son responsibility instead of blaming girls!”
She’d made Veronica go to uni part-time, talked her out of termination. It had been hell. Years later, Polly’s birth felt worth it. Until now. *A grandmother at thirty-six.*
That boy’s parents shipped him off to another city. Veronica avoided relationships until her boss—a widower—proposed. She refused, quit. Then last year, a handsome new hire at work flirted relentlessly. Ten years her junior, undeterred by her having a daughter.
Oliver proposed almost immediately. She hesitated, terrified to introduce Polly. What if he fancied *her* instead?
Polly married Anton in August, moved into his flat. And Veronica? Still delaying moving in with Oliver—until Polly’s landlord evicted them for the pregnancy. “Can we stay with you a few days?”
“Of course!”
But how would three adults share *her* tiny place? The solution: she’d stay with Oliver.
“Finally!” he grinned.
Yet unease gnawed at her. Days turned to weeks—Polly showed no sign of leaving. Meanwhile, Oliver grew frustrated. “You doubt me *still*?”
Then nausea hit. A pregnancy test: positive. *A grandson and a son the same age.* She kept silent, torn.
Polly gave birth; Veronica rushed to help. Exhausted, one day she nearly fainted at Polly’s.
“Are you *pregnant*?” Polly shrieked. “You’re mad! How will you help *me* now?”
“Many women have babies at thirty-six!”
“Get rid of it!” Polly hissed. “You preached at *me*, then go and—”
She told Oliver. He was overjoyed—then furious she’d hidden it.
“Polly says it’s wrong—the ages—”
“Don’t you *dare* abort. I’ll never forgive you.”
But lifting baby Paul triggered cramps. Blood. A miscarriage.
“This is *her* fault!” Oliver raged. “She didn’t want you to have it—dumped Paul on you!”
“Don’t you *dare*! She’s my *child*!”
“And *I* don’t matter?” He stormed out.
He didn’t return. She packed for Mum’s—then he walked in.
“Knew you’d run. I slept at the office. I’m not losing you.”
They talked for hours.
“You’re burnt out. *She* only thinks of herself. Write leave—we’re flying to Spain. No arguments.”
Resistance was useless. Under Spanish sun, the tension melted. Polly barely called—and when she did: “How *are* you, Mum?”
“Oliver proposed. I said yes.”
A pause. “I’m happy for you.”
Back home, they wed quickly. Polly visited weekends with little Paul. Oliver doted on him.
“You’ll swim, cycle, ski…” He tossed the giggling boy gently.
Watching them, Veronica ached—for lost chances, for Oliver’s fatherhood stolen. For Polly, thrust too soon into adulthood.
*Maybe I’ll try again. Thirty-seven’s not old. I deserve happiness too.*
