Veronica sat alone in her flat in London, gazing out at the grey drizzle beyond the window. The weight of the last few months pressed down on her—first the shock of Daisy’s pregnancy, then the whirlwind wedding, and now… this.
Daisy had always been so obedient, so predictable—until she met Marcus. He was older, twenty-four to her seventeen, already working in finance after graduating from Manchester University. Veronica had felt the floor drop from beneath her when Daisy confessed—not just the pregnancy, but the defiance, the hurt flung back at her like an accusation: *You had me at eighteen. Who are you to judge?*
The argument still rang in her ears.
*”You’re throwing your life away!”* Veronica had snapped, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter.
*”Like you did?”* Daisy shot back, her voice trembling. *”You never even wanted me!”*
That stung. Yes, she’d been young. Yes, she’d considered—briefly, desperately—other options. But she’d never regretted Daisy. Not really.
Now her daughter was married. Living in Marcus’s rented flat in Camden. A baby due in months. And Veronica? She’d been left reeling, grasping for control.
Then there was James.
Twelve years her junior, persistent, disarmingly sincere. He’d pursued her at the office despite her refusals, her insistence that she was too old, too weary, too much a mess. But he hadn’t cared. For six months, they’d stolen hours in his flat, Veronica spinning excuses to Daisy, who—she now knew—had seen right through her.
James wanted to marry her. But how could she? How could she risk Daisy meeting him—young, handsome—and seeing that flicker of interest? The thought made her sick.
Then Daisy called, frantic. The landlord had evicted them—no pregnant tenants allowed. Could they stay with her, just for a few days?
Of course. Always.
But living under one roof, watching Marcus hover over Daisy, their whispered conversations, their tenderness—it shattered something in Veronica. She couldn’t breathe. So she fled. To James.
*”Finally,”* he’d murmured, pulling her close.
But the relief didn’t last. Daisy lingered. The resentment simmered. And then—another shock.
Two pink lines. A baby of her own.
*”You’re joking,”* Daisy hissed when she found out. *”You’re actually going to have it? At your age?”*
*”I’m thirty-seven, not dead,”* Veronica snapped, stung.
James was overjoyed. Daisy was furious. And then—the pain, the blood, the hospital.
*”It’s her fault,”* James muttered later, jaw tight. *”She never wanted you to have this. She’s selfish.”*
*”Don’t you dare—”*
But he’d left without another word.
That night, curled alone on the sofa, Veronica sobbed. She had failed—Daisy, James, the child she’d lost. She’d spent so long trying to fix everything, to be everything, and now she was nothing.
Then—
The key turned.
James stood there, rumpled, red-eyed. *”I knew you’d run,”* he said hoarsely. *”I’m not letting you.”*
He booked them flights to Spain. Insisted she take leave. *”Daisy has Marcus. Let her figure it out.”*
And somehow, under the Mediterranean sun, the knots inside her loosened. Daisy called—not for help, but to ask how *she* was. James proposed again. She said yes.
Back home, Daisy brought little Noah round on Sundays. James bounced him on his knee, grinning. *”Wait till you’re bigger, mate. We’ll teach you footie. Take you camping.”*
Veronica watched, heart aching. She mourned the baby she’d lost. The years she’d wasted in fear.
But maybe—just maybe—there was still time.
She was only thirty-seven, after all.
