**”Choose: Either You’re There with Her, or Here with Us”**
Polly stopped by the corner shop after work, just a stone’s throw from home. She was already at the till when she spotted Auntie Rose—her mother’s old friend from years back. Whenever Polly bumped into her, she’d always pause for a quick natter.
Polly paid, stepped aside, and lingered by the exit, waiting.
“Hello,” she greeted as Auntie Rose shuffled over. “Haven’t seen you in ages.”
“Polly, love. Been poorly, holed up at home. Come on, walk with me—got summat to tell you.”
Polly’s stomach twisted. Sixteen-year-old Liam was at that restless age, and thirteen-year-old Lottie was already boy-crazy. Had one of them landed in trouble? Her palms ached where the shopping bag handles dug in. Maybe she could plead busyness, slip away—but Auntie Rose was already leaning in, voice hushed:
“Now, don’t think I’m one for gossip. Saw it with me own eyes. You’re like family, watched you grow up. Your Pete’s been calling on that young lass in the house opposite. Her windows face mine. Soon as he shows up, curtains snap shut.”
Polly went cold, then hot. Of all people—Peter? Reliable, steady Peter?
“Thought you oughta know. Been proper wrung out about it. You’ve got two kids. What if it’s serious? Ought to have words with him, before it’s too late.”
“Right. Ta, Auntie Rose.” Polly hurried off, cheeks burning, forgetting they lived on the same street altogether.
Fumbling with her keys, she barely heard Lottie padding over to scoop up spilled groceries.
“Take it to the kitchen. Not now,” Polly muttered, shooing her away.
*How could he? If Auntie Rose saw, who else has? And the kids—was I blind?*
“Mum, you poorly? You look proper peaky—”
“Just go. Need a minute.”
Lottie hesitated but left.
*Thank God Peter’s not home. Need to steady myself. Else I’d rip into him the second he walked in.*
She gulped water at the kitchen sink, hands trembling. The cottage pie burned at the edges. Between stirring, she peered out the window, hunting for Auntie Rose’s flat—and the one opposite.
The clatter of keys made her jump. Peter’s voice boomed: “Smells banging in here!”
“Wash up. Dinner’s ready.” Her voice was taut as a wire.
“Summat up?” He stepped closer, studying her face.
“Ran into Auntie Rose. She said… she’d been ill. Didn’t even visit her.”
“That’s what’s got you in a state?”
“No. She saw you. Going into that house across the way.” The words came out whisper-thin.
“That old busybody! What else’d she spin you?” But his darting eyes betrayed him.
*It’s true.* Her hope curdled.
“Others saw too. Were you even thinking? If the kids find out—” She glanced at the doorway. “I can’t swallow this, Peter. Choose: either you’re there with her, or here with us.”
“Pol—” He reached for her shoulders. She recoiled.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Mum? Dad? Why’re you shouting?” Liam’s head appeared in the doorway. Polly hadn’t even heard him come in.
“Wash up. Fetch your sister. Dinner.” She forced a smile.
Days passed in sulfurous silence. The tension thickened. Polly willed him to apologise, to swear it was over. She pictured life without him—just her and the kids.
One evening, with Liam out and Lottie at a mate’s, Peter cleared his throat.
“Can’t go on like this. We need to talk.”
“So talk.”
“Not making excuses. Just… her parents died in a car crash. Then her gran passed. She moved into the flat. I helped shift boxes. Dunno what came over me—pity, maybe. I’d have walked away, but… she’s pregnant.”
Polly swayed, gripping a chair.
“Haven’t seen her since we argued. But she cornered me, told me about the baby. What am I s’posed to do? Can’t just abandon her.”
“But you can abandon *us*? Your kids?” Polly wheezed.
“They’re grown. They’ll understand.”
“Blaming *them* for *your* mess? Get out. Now. Before they’re back.” She snatched the telly remote and hurled it. Plastic shards sprayed. Peter caught her wrists.
“Stop. I’ll go. Just let me see the kids.”
“*Go.*” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Don’t know what I’ll do else.”
He released her. Polly crumpled onto the sofa, face in hands. The door slammed.
When Liam returned, she was sweeping up the remote.
“Don’t cry, Mum. He’ll come crawling back.”
“You—*knew*?”
“Nah. Heard it through the door. Good riddance. We’re done with him.”
“Don’t say that! He’s still your dad.”
“Mum, he *chose* her. Sort it yourself.” Liam vanished into his room.
She and Peter had dreamed of a bigger place. Now they’d have space to spare.
*Every cloud*, Polly thought bitterly.
Peter didn’t return. Three days later, Polly left work early and marched to *her* flat. Second floor. The door swung open to a sweet-faced girl whose smile died.
“You’re… Pete’s wife. Knew you’d come.”
“You *know* me?”
“Yeah. You here to scratch my eyes out? He’s not here. When I met him… he looked like my dad. They died last year. Then Gran. I was *alone*—”
“And his kids? Knew about them?” Polly’s fingers itched to yank her hair.
“Yeah. He loves you. Talks about the kids loads. I never meant… I’d have managed—”
“But you didn’t send him packing.” Polly turned, choking. *Why did I come? Now she’s real. Now she’s in our lives.*
Winter came and went. One night, a knock. Not the bell—a timid rap. Peter stood there, scruffy and red-eyed.
“Didn’t wanna wake the kids. Can I…?”
“What’s happened?”
He toed off his shoes, avoiding her gaze. “She’s gone. Collapsed. I rang an ambulance—”
“The baby?”
“Born early. Alive. I just… muck everything up. Hurt you, left the kids—”
“Kitchen. Tea?”
“Something stronger.”
“You can’t. You’ve a child now.”
“What do I want with it?” His eyes glistened. “Not taking it from hospital.”
“Foster care? With a living father?”
“Can’t do it. Need to start over. Head up north. Rebuild. They wouldn’t take me for the army, but—”
“Running? From your own *child*?”
He knuckled his forehead.
Her heart split. She hadn’t forgiven him—but couldn’t boot him out like this. She made up the sofa bed. Listened to him toss and sigh till dawn.
At breakfast, they fell into old rhythms.
“Stay?”
“Wouldn’t be fair. I’ll write. You’ll reply?”
“Aye.”
Liam dodged Peter’s hug. Lottie clung, sobbing.
Days blurred. Snow melted. Peter’s letters came sporadically—apologies, hellos to the kids.
Liam finished school, announced he’d enlist.
“No! You *can’t* leave us!” Polly begged, wept, even knelt.
“Nothing’ll happen. They won’t send us *there*.”
Soon, it was just her and Lottie—until she, too, would flit the nest. Polly mulled it over. Then wrote to Peter: she’d take the baby. No child of his should be orphaned. She’d visited—spitting image of him. Just needed his consent.
He wrote back: *Think hard. It’ll be tough. I’ll try to visit.*
A year later, Liam returned from service unharmed. Polly, overjoyed, forgot to mention the toddler. Little Andy wobbled in. Liam didn’t blink. Scooped him up, tossed him high. The boy squealed.
“Brave little bugger. Proper soldier.”
“You *knew*? I never wrote—”
“Dad did. You did right, Mum.”
“You—*talk* to him?”
“Ages. He’s miserable without us. Forgive him, yeah? He loves you. Writes it every time.”
“Already have.”
LottAs the years rolled on, the family found their way back to each other, piece by broken piece, until the fractures were nothing but scars that told their story.
