“Are you alright in there? Amelia, open the door.” Polly hammered her fists harder against the bathroom door, her voice tight with worry.
She had woken up to the sound of soft snoring from her husband beside her. Pale March sunlight filtered through the thin veil of clouds outside. A glance at the wall clock sent a jolt of panic through her—until she remembered it was a holiday, International Women’s Day.
Right. Wash up, make coffee, and fix breakfast before Amelia and James woke up. Carefully, she slipped out from under the duvet. But James stirred, blinking sleepily.
“What time is it?” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
“Half eight.”
He bolted upright.
“Relax. It’s a holiday—go back to sleep,” Polly smiled.
“Then why are you up?” James pulled her into his arms and nuzzled her neck. “Happy Women’s Day, love. My wonderful wife, mother of my children.”
“Last I checked, we’ve only got the one,” Polly laughed, wriggling free. “I’ll make breakfast. You stay in bed.”
“While you’re cooking, I’ll go for a quick run. The weather’s grand.” James tossed the covers aside and padded barefoot to the bathroom.
Polly had prepared the cottage cheese for pancakes the night before. All that was left was to chop a banana into the mixture, coat them in flour, and fry them. Soon, the sweet, buttery scent filled the kitchen.
“That smells amazing.” Amelia appeared in the doorway, her hair tousled, squinting in the bright light. She wore shorts and a T-shirt.
A sunbeam broke through the clouds, glinting off the kettle and flooding the kitchen with warmth.
Suddenly, Amelia clapped a hand over her mouth and vanished. Polly stood frozen for a second before rushing after her.
“Amelia, open up! Are you alright?” Polly pressed her ear to the locked bathroom door. The sound of running water answered her. “Amelia, let me in!” She pounded harder.
A cold dread settled in her chest. She told herself it was just an upset stomach—until a horrifying thought struck. No. Not Amelia. Not her A-levels, her university plans. This couldn’t be happening.
The smell of burning snapped her back. Cursing, she scraped the charred pancakes into the bin. The shock steadied her. “Okay. Stay calm.”
The doorbell rang. Assuming it was James returning from his run, she hurried to open it—only to find a young man on the doorstep holding a bouquet of tulips.
“Hello, Mrs. Hart. These are for you.” He held out the flowers with an awkward smile.
“Thank you,” Polly managed, stunned. “Come in. Amelia’s in the bathroom.”
He stepped inside but lingered near the door, still in his jacket. The nervous flicker in his eyes told her everything.
“So it’s you?” she hissed. “Do you realise I could have you arrested for this?”
The boy paled. “I—I came to talk. I love Amelia, and I won’t run from this…”
At that moment, Amelia emerged, pale and exhausted. Her eyes darted between them.
“You?” she whispered, echoing Polly.
“Which one of you is going to explain why my daughter’s being sick every morning?” Polly’s voice rose. “Was it you?”
“Mum! Stop!” Amelia threw up her hands and fled to her room.
“Amelia, get back here!”
The front door clicked open, and James walked in.
“Got an admirer, love?” He nodded at the tulips in Polly’s hand. “Hope those happy screams weren’t just for flowers.”
“Happy?” Polly choked. “He—” The words lodged in her throat.
“I love your daughter, and I want to marry her,” the boy blurted, red as a beetroot.
“Well, that’s a turn-up.” James chuckled dryly. “You’re both still in sixth form. Suppose we’d better talk. What’s your name?”
“Oliver. Oliver Reed. I came so you wouldn’t think—”
“Take your coat off. Polly, put those in water. I’ll shower quick and join you.” James disappeared into the bathroom.
With James home, Polly felt steadier. She arranged the tulips in a vase, admiring how their colours brightened the kitchen. Then she returned to the pancakes.
The sun vanished behind clouds, as if afraid of her temper. Soon, a stack of golden pancakes sat on a plate. Polly set out plates and mugs just as James returned, smelling of fresh shower gel.
“Pancakes! Amelia, bring your guest!” He sat, eyeing Polly. “So what’s happened?”
Before she could answer, Oliver shuffled in. In daylight, he looked painfully young. James nodded to a chair, and Oliver sat, staring at his plate.
Amelia reappeared in jeans and a jumper, her hair brushed. Polly’s hope flickered—maybe she’d imagined the worst.
“Not hungry?” James asked as Amelia hovered.
“No.”
Polly shot her a worried glance. Was she afraid she’d be sick again?
“You not eating either?” James asked Polly. She shook her head and walked out. “More for us.” He winked at Oliver, shovelling in a mouthful.
In the living room, James found her on the sofa. “What’s going on?”
Before she could answer, Amelia and Oliver appeared.
“Right, Oliver,” James said. “Let’s hear it. What’s scared my wife half to death?”
Oliver swallowed hard. “I—I’m taking responsibility. I love Amelia, and we’ll get married.”
“Is there a reason for rushing?” James’s tone hardened.
“There is,” Polly cut in. “Our daughter’s pregnant.”
“Mum!” Amelia burst into tears.
“Is this true?” James clapped his hands on his knees. “Do your parents know about this, Oliver?”
“My dad does. I told him when Amelia told me.” Oliver met his gaze, flushing crimson.
“And you?” James turned to Amelia. “I won’t shout. But do you want an abortion? Because you might never have kids after.”
“James!” Polly gasped.
“Easy.” He held up a hand.
“She’s keeping it,” Oliver said firmly.
“You’re seventeen!” Polly barely held back hysteria. “Did contraceptives not *occur* to you? Amelia, do you understand what you’ve thrown away?”
“Polly, stop,” James interjected. “First, she finishes school quietly. No one needs to know yet. She can study remotely later.”
“You’re so *calm*!” Polly’s eyes welled.
“What should I do? Beat them? Or would you rather force her into an abortion? She’d never forgive you.”
Oliver squared his shoulders. “I’ll get a job.”
“A job? They’ll draft you next year! Then what?” Polly’s face burned.
“They won’t,” Oliver muttered.
“Oh, brilliant. You’re ill too!”
“I’m not. My dad’s military—he’ll arrange a deferment.”
“See? The lad’s got a plan.” James’s tone was unreadable.
“Plan? He should’ve *planned* not to get her pregnant!”
“This isn’t the worst thing, Polly. At least she’s healthy. What if she was seriously ill?” James pulled her close.
Later, over negotiations, they agreed Amelia and Oliver would stay with their parents until after exams to avoid gossip. They’d marry quietly, then move in together while she studied remotely.
Would they last? Only time would tell. Parenting doesn’t come with a manual—you learn by doing.
