“Are you alright in there? Maisie, open up.” – Pauline hammered harder on the bathroom door with her fists.
Pauline woke and listened. Beside her, her husband snored softly. March sunlight seeped through the gauzy clouds outside. She glanced at the wall clock and jolted, afraid she’d be late for work—then remembered it was Saturday, Mother’s Day.
Right. Wash up, coffee, breakfast before Maisie and John woke. She slipped carefully from under the duvet, but John stirred.
“What time is it?” he mumbled, eyes still shut.
“Half eight.”
He bolted upright.
“Relax. Day off, holiday, go back to sleep,” Pauline smiled.
“And yet you’re up?” John grabbed her and nuzzled into her neck. “Happy Mother’s Day, my love.”
“Well, technically, we’ve only got the one,” Pauline chuckled. “I’ll go make breakfast. You stay put.”
“While you cook, I’ll go for a run. Lovely out,” John said, tossing the covers aside and padding barefoot to the bathroom.
Pauline had strained the cottage cheese for pancakes last night. Just needed a sliced banana, a dusting of flour, then into the frying pan. Soon, the kitchen filled with the sweet, buttery scent.
“Smells amazing.” Maisie appeared in the doorway, tousle-haired in shorts and a T-shirt, squinting in the bright light.
A sunbeam broke through the clouds, casting a cheerful glow across the kitchen, bouncing off the kettle’s steel curve.
Suddenly, Maisie clapped a hand over her mouth and vanished. Pauline froze—then sprinted after her.
“Maisie, open up. Are you okay?” She pressed her ear to the locked door, then knocked. The sound of running water answered. “Maisie!” Her fists pounded harder.
Dread pooled in her chest. Pauline shoved it aside, convincing herself it was just an upset stomach. Then—she gasped. Her insides turned to ice. *No. Not Maisie. A-levels, top marks, uni plans… God, why?*
The smell of burning yanked her back. She swore, scraping blackened pancakes into the bin. The small crisis steadied her. *Right. Stay calm.*
The doorbell rang. Assuming it was John, she rushed to answer—only to find a young man on the step with a bouquet of tulips.
“Hello, Mrs. Harris. These are for you.” He held them out with a nervous smile.
“Thank you,” Pauline said faintly, taking them. “Come in. Maisie’s… in the bathroom.”
He shuffled inside but kept his jacket on, hovering. His anxious eyes told her everything.
“So it’s you?” she hissed. “You? Do you know I could have you arrested?”
He flinched.
“I came to talk. I love Maisie, and I won’t run from this—”
Just then, Maisie emerged, pale and shaky. She stared at her mother, then at the boy.
“You?” she echoed.
“Will someone explain why she’s sick in the mornings? Is it you?” Pauline’s voice rose, sharp as a blade.
“Mum! It’s fine,” Maisie cut in, retreating to her room.
“Maisie! Get back here!”
The front door clicked open. John strode in.
“Ah, an admirer?” He nodded at the tulips. “Hope you were cheering, not shouting. Heard you down the stairs.”
“Cheering? He’s—” Words failed her.
“I love your daughter. I want to marry her,” the boy blurted, red as a beetroot.
“Blimey. And here I was jealous,” John joked. “Maisie’s still in sixth form, lad. Suppose we’d better talk. Your name?”
“Oliver. Oliver Trent. I came so you wouldn’t think I’d—”
“Jacket off, sit down. Polly, put those in water. I’ll shower, then join you.” John vanished into the bathroom.
His calm soothed her. Pauline arranged the tulips, watching sunlight dance on the petals. Then she returned to the pancakes.
The sun hid behind clouds, as if dodging her mood. Soon, a stack of golden pancakes waited. She set the table just as John returned, fresh from the shower.
“Pancakes! Maisie, bring your guest!” he called. Then, softer: “What’s happened?”
Before she could answer, Oliver shuffled in. Daylight made him look painfully young. John gestured to a chair, and he sat, eyes fixed on his plate.
Maisie reappeared, changed, her hair combed. *Maybe I imagined it*, Pauline hoped. She fussed with the sugar bowl.
“Polly, relax.” John forked two pancakes onto Oliver’s plate. “Sit, Maisie.”
“Not hungry,” she muttered.
Pauline’s stomach twisted. *Afraid she’ll be sick again?*
“You not eating either?” John asked.
She shook her head and left.
John found her on the sofa. “What’s happened?”
Before she could answer, Maisie and Oliver appeared.
“Time to explain, son. Why’s my wife in a state?”
Oliver cleared his throat. “I’m here to take responsibility. I love Maisie. I’ll marry her.”
“Any reason for the rush?” John’s tone hardened.
“There is,” Pauline said flatly. “Our daughter’s pregnant.”
“Mum!” Maisie’s voice cracked.
“Is this true?” John smacked his knees and stood. “Do your parents know about this, lad?”
“They do. I told them when Maisie told me.” Oliver met his glare, ears burning.
“And you?” John turned to Maisie. “I won’t shout. But do you want to keep it?”
“Yes,” Oliver cut in.
“You’re seventeen,” Pauline snapped. “Ever heard of condoms? Maisie, your life’s over. Uni out the window. A baby’s exhausting—”
“Polly, enough.” John held up a hand. “First, she finishes school quietly. No gossip. Then you two marry. Maisie can study remotely.”
“How can you be so calm?” Tears brimmed.
“What should I do? Belt them? Force an abortion? She’d never forgive us.”
Pauline turned away. “I’m thirty-seven. Too young to be a gran! How will you afford this?”
“I’ll work,” Oliver said.
“Work? Then you’re drafted in autumn, and she’s alone. Brilliant!”
“I won’t be.”
“Oh, so you’re diseased too?”
“My dad’s military. He’ll defer it.”
John raised a brow. “Organised, at least.”
“Could’ve organised contraception,” Pauline muttered.
“Polly, it’s not the worst that could’ve happened. She’s healthy. That’s what matters.” He hugged her.
“Meet his parents. Plan properly.”
“Just my dad,” Oliver mumbled. “Mum’s gone. Cancer. She… jumped.”
Pauline’s anger faltered.
“Oliver should go,” John said. “Maisie, see him out. We’ll meet your father.”
Later, over tea, the parents agreed: no moving in until after exams, a quiet wedding, remote uni. Hard? Yes. But newborns test everyone.
Whether Maisie and Oliver last depends on them. Parenting isn’t innate—it’s learned in the doing. And sometimes, love means facing storms together, not sheltering from them.
