**March 8th**
*Dear Diary,*
“Are you alright? Maisie, open up.” Polly rapped her knuckles harder against the bathroom door.
She’d woken early, listening to her husband’s soft snores beside her. Pale March sunlight filtered through the clouds. A glance at the wall clock made her jolt—until she remembered it was Sunday. International Women’s Day.
Right. Wash up, coffee, breakfast before Maisie and her husband stirred. She eased out from under the duvet. But as she did, Chris shifted.
“What time is it?” he mumbled, eyes still closed.
“Half eight.”
He sat bolt upright.
“Relax. It’s the holiday, sleep,” Polly smiled.
“And yet *you’re* up?” Chris pulled her into a bear hug, nuzzling her neck. “Happy Women’s Day, my love. Mother of my children.”
“*One* child, thank you,” she laughed, wriggling free. “I’m making breakfast. Stay in bed.”
“While you cook, I’ll go for a run. Perfect weather.” He tossed the covers aside and padded barefoot to the bathroom.
Polly had prepared the cottage cheese for pancakes the night before. Just needed a sliced banana, a dusting of flour, then frying. Soon, the sweet scent filled the kitchen.
“Smells amazing.” A tousled Maisie appeared in the doorway, squinting in the light.
A sunbeam broke through, glinting off the kettle. Then Maisie clapped a hand over her mouth and vanished. Polly froze—then raced after her.
“Maisie, open the door! Are you okay?” Silence. The tap ran. She pounded harder. “MAISIE!”
Dread pooled in her chest. *Maybe just a stomach bug*, she lied to herself. Then—a horrible thought. Ice flooded her veins. *No. Not Maisie. Not her. A-levels, top grades, university plans… God, why?*
The smell of burning snapped her back. Swearing, she scraped the charred pancakes into the bin. The normality grounded her. *Stay calm.*
The doorbell rang. Chris back early? She flung the door open—to a young man clutching a bouquet of tulips.
“Hello, Mrs. Hart. These are for you.” He held them out, smiling nervously.
“Th-thank you,” she stammered, taking them. “Come in. Maisie’s… in the bathroom.”
He stepped inside but lingered awkwardly. His uneasy gaze told her everything.
*So it’s you?* she seethed. “*You*. Do you know I could have you arrested?”
He flinched.
“I came to talk. I love Maisie. I’ll take responsibility—”
The bathroom door creaked open. Pale and shaken, Maisie stared between them.
“You?” she whispered.
“Will *someone* explain why she’s sick every morning?” Polly’s voice rose. “*You?*”
“Mum! It’s fine!” Maisie fled to her room.
“MAISIE!”
The front door clicked. Chris walked in, rosy-cheeked.
“Admirer, Polly?” He nodded at the tulips. “Hope you weren’t yelling at the poor lad.”
“*Yelling?*” She choked. “*He—*” The words stuck.
“I love your daughter. I want to marry her,” the boy blurted, scarlet.
“Well, *that’s* a declaration.” Chris chuckled. “Maisie’s still in sixth form—and you?” He sighed. “Right. Serious talk. Your name?”
“Daniel. Daniel Whitmore. I didn’t want you to think I’d—”
“Come through. Polly, flowers in a vase. I’ll shower, then we’ll talk.” He disappeared.
Polly arranged the tulips, their cheeriness mocking her. Then—back to the pancakes.
The sun ducked behind clouds as if wary of her mood. Soon, a stack steamed on the table.
“Pancakes! Maisie, bring your guest!” Chris called as he returned, smelling of shower gel. He studied Polly. “So. What happened?”
Before she could answer, Daniel shuffled in. Daylight made him look painfully young.
Maisie reappeared, composed now. *Maybe I imagined it?* Polly fumbled for the sugar bowl.
“Sit, eat,” Chris told Daniel, forking two pancakes onto his plate. Maisie hovered. “Not hungry?”
Polly’s stomach twisted. *Afraid she’ll be sick again?*
“You?” Chris asked her. She shook her head and left.
In the living room, he found her. “What’s going on?”
Before she could answer, Maisie and Daniel appeared.
“Time to explain, son,” Chris said.
Daniel cleared his throat. “I—I’ll take responsibility. I love Maisie. We’ll marry.”
Chris’s smile faded. “Any *reason* for rushing?”
Polly answered for him. “Our daughter’s pregnant.”
*”Mum!”* Maisie cried.
“This true?” Chris clapped his hands to his knees. “Your parents know about this, Daniel?”
“My dad does. I told him when Maisie told me.”
Chris turned to Maisie. “And you? I won’t shout. But do you want an abortion? Know the risks?”
*”Chris!”* Polly gasped.
“Easy. Or should I belt him? Send her to a clinic?” Chris’s calm wavered. “She’d never forgive us.”
Polly sobbed. “I’m *thirty-seven*. A *grandmother*? How will you *live*?”
Daniel lifted his chin. “I’ll work.”
“Work? Then you’ll get drafted, leave her alone—brilliant!”
“Won’t happen.”
“Ah, *and* he’s ill,” Polly spat.
“My dad’s military. He’ll arrange deferment.”
“See? Lad’s got a plan,” Chris said, tone unreadable.
“Should’ve planned *contraception*,” Polly snapped.
“Polly,” Chris sighed. “It’s not the worst thing. What if she were *dying*? *That’s* tragedy.” He hugged her. “We’ll meet his father. Sort this.”
Daniel shifted. “Just my dad. My mum… she jumped. When the cancer got bad.”
Polly barely softened. “Doesn’t excuse ruining *her* life.”
“Enough,” Chris cut in. “He came clean. You’ll be a stunning gran.”
*”Seriously?”* She wrenched away.
Daniel spoke up. “We’ve space. My nan’ll help. I won’t abandon them.”
“Lovely *gift*,” Polly muttered.
“Best you go now,” Chris said. “We’ll speak to your father.”
***
A seventeen-year-old’s pregnancy is never welcome news. But parents must *help*, not alienate.
They agreed: Until exams, Maisie and Daniel would stay home to avoid gossip. The baby wouldn’t show for months. After, they’d marry, Maisie would start university remotely.
It wouldn’t be easy—parenthood *never* is.
Would they last? Only time would tell. You’re not born a parent; you *become* one.
