Polly climbed the stairs to the second floor of the office, relieved not to bump into any colleagues on the way. The last thing she wanted was those pitying stares or awkward questions. She ducked into her office like a woman on a mission.
“Polly, love—finally!” chirped Gladys Wilkins, her desk-mate of six years. “You’ve missed all the drama. Old Mr. Thompson’s been pensioned off, and the new director’s come in—young but ruthless. He’s clearing out anyone over fifty. Reckon I’ll be next. How’s little Tommy, by the way?”
Polly sank into her chair, scanning the room. She could feel Gladys watching her, waiting.
“Nonsense, Gladys. Sack everyone, and who’ll do the work? They’ll boot me first—I’m always off with Tommy. He needs a bone marrow transplant. Costs a fortune, and I haven’t got it. Charity funds have queues longer than the post office on pension day. And we need a donor. I’m no match, and Mum’s too old…”
“Lord above, what’s that poor boy done to deserve this?” Gladys clucked, genuine sympathy in her voice. “Have you tried finding his dad?”
“And if I do? Doubt he’d volunteer. The procedure’s no walk in the park. Plus, he’d never believe Tommy’s his—”
The door swung open. In waltzed Alison from HR, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. Both women froze mid-conversation, faces taut with dread.
“They said you were back. Polly, I know this is awful timing, but the new director’s order—” She faltered.
“Spit it out,” Polly said, mentally kicking herself. *There it is. Jinxed it.*
Alison glanced at Gladys like a child seeking backup.
“What, the new bloke’s sacking me too? Oh no he isn’t.” Polly shot up so fast she nearly knocked Alison sideways, then stormed off down the corridor.
Someone shouted after her, but Polly’s heels were already clacking defiantly toward the lift. Latecomers greeted her; she barely noticed. *Over my dead body. Let him try. He’s got no right—*
The director’s reception was manned by a glossy-haired girl straight off a magazine cover—flawless skin, designer blouse, top buttons undone just so.
“Where’s Mrs. Carter?” Polly demanded.
The girl gaped, revealing teeth whiter than a toothpaste ad. Polly didn’t wait for an answer. She grabbed the office door handle.
“You can’t go in! He’s in a meeting!” The secretary lunged, but Polly was already inside.
She froze on the threshold. The secretary slithered past, squeaking, “I tried to stop her, Mr. Whitmore!”
“Leave us, Emily.” The director’s voice was cool. Emily vanished. “Well?”
Polly knew him instantly, though twelve years had passed. The sharp jawline, the way he tilted his head—unchanged. And yet, he clearly didn’t recognise her. At first, it stung. Then she decided it was for the best.
“Come in. Sit.” Paul Whitmore gestured to a chair.
Polly stayed standing. “I’m Polly Anne Saunders from Marketing. By what right are you sacking me? My son’s ill—I have to hospitalise him. Mr. Thompson understood, even let me work from home. Now you—”
Paul leaned back in his absurdly expensive leather chair (Mr. Thompson’s had been *normal*, she noted bitterly), studying her with detached curiosity. She faltered, flushing under his gaze.
“I was told your *daughter* was sick. Tragic, but you’re never here. Others cover your work—is that fair?” He spoke like a headmaster scolding a naughty pupil.
“*Son*,” Polly corrected.
“Pardon?”
“Tommy’s a boy. If you sack us, we’ll starve.” Her voice cracked despite herself—pleading, desperate.
“Do *you* have children? A mother? If they were dying, would you clock in like nothing’s wrong?” She steeled herself, meeting his eyes.
“What’s wrong with him?” he asked, tone bland.
“Leukaemia. Know what that is?” Her challenge wobbled mid-sentence.
“Wait—have we met? You seem familiar.” He watched her closely.
Polly’s mind raced. *Say something. Anything.*
“We… went to uni together. New Year’s Eve? I visited a friend in halls… You played guitar, then…” She trailed off, cheeks burning.
“Polly?” *Finally.* She almost smirked. *Remember now?*
“Sorry, didn’t recognise you.” His voice softened. “How can I help?”
“Don’t sack me. Tommy needs that transplant. I’m out of options.” She covered her face, hiding the tears.
“No husband, I take it,” Paul observed.
Polly dropped her hands. They stared at each other. Then he stood, circled the desk, and stepped closer.
“Tell me—is he mine?”
“No,” she said too quickly. The last thing she needed was him thinking this was some ploy to trap him.
“Where’s his father, then?”
“What does it matter? Can I go?” She straightened, brushing past him.
“I’ll… see what I can do,” he called after her.
“Well?” Gladys pounced when Polly returned.
“Fine,” Polly exhaled. “He’s not a monster. Just a man with a mother, I suppose.”
But her mind drifted back to that New Year’s Eve—snow swirling, fairy lights glittering. His kiss at her doorstep, lips sweet like chocolate. Coffee at her flat (Mum was out all night). His guitar, his laugh. The girls said his father was some big shot; Paul had wanted to make his own name.
Then he’d vanished after the holidays—transferred, rumours said. Family trouble. When Polly found out she was pregnant, pride kept her from chasing him. She’d cried, switched to part-time studies, raised Tommy alone.
Never dreaming they’d meet like *this*.
At home, Mum fretted over Tommy’s untouched dinner. Polly barely touched hers either.
“Mum,” Tommy called weakly from his room. Then—the doorbell.
“Polly! Visitor!” Mum hissed.
Paul stood on the threshold, holding flowers.
“You?” Polly blinked.
“Me. Thought I’d check in.” His eyes landed on a photo frame—Tommy at nine, grinning, healthy.
“Tea? Shepherd’s pie?” Mum fluttered.
“God, yes. Hotel food’s killing me.”
They ate under Mum’s scrutiny. Then—
“Mum, who’s here?” Tommy’s voice floated down the hall.
Paul looked at Polly. “May I?”
Tommy stared at the stranger. “Who’re you?”
“Your mum’s boss.”
“You won’t sack her, will you? She’s only off ‘cos of me.”
Paul crouched by the bed. “Quite the opposite. I rang a London clinic—they’ll do your op soon. You’ll be kicking footballs again.”
Tommy eyed him. “What about the money?”
“Sorted. Now, I need a word with your mum.”
In the hallway, Paul gestured to the photo. “Polly… he’s mine, isn’t he? Spitting image. Here.” He pressed a DNA kit into her hand. “If it’s positive, I’ll donate. No arguments.”
Mum sobbed when he left. “His *father*? Thank heavens!”
“That’s him, isn’t it?” Tommy whispered when Polly tucked him in. “He’ll help?”
“Sick kids hear everything, don’t they?” She smoothed his hair.
Two days later, they drove to London—Tommy drowsing in the back, Paul quietly confessing: a failed society marriage, his father’s fury, exile to this backwater office. Polly admitted she’d waited for him at uni, wept when he disappeared.
The transplant worked. Weeks later, discharged and masked, Tommy grinned at the Nikon Paul gifted him. “S’pose I’ll learn proper photography, then.”
One evening, Paul lingered at the door. “Polly… it’s too soon, but—would you marry me? Talk to Tommy. Your mum. No rush.”
“Not out of guilt, I hope.”
“Guilt? No. Gratitude, maybe—for keeping him.” He pulled her close. “Being with you… it feels like coming home.”
Mum bawled. Tommy fist-pumped. And Polly? She finally let herself believe in happy endings.
