“Are you okay in there? Maisie, open up.”—Polly hammered harder on the bathroom door.
Polly woke and listened. Beside her, her husband snored softly. March sunlight seeped through gauzy clouds. She glanced at the wall clock, then jolted upright, fearing she’d overslept for work—before remembering it was a bank holiday, Women’s Day.
Right. Wash up, coffee, breakfast before Maisie and Mark woke. She slipped carefully from under the duvet—but Mark stirred.
“What time?” he mumbled, eyes still closed.
“Half eight.”
He sat up sharply.
“Relax. Bank holiday. Sleep,” Polly smiled.
“And why are you up, then?” Mark dragged her into a bear hug, nuzzling her neck. “Happy Women’s Day, love. Mother of my child.”
“Only the one child, mind,” Polly laughed. “I’ll make breakfast. You lie in.”
“While you cook, I’ll jog. Lovely out.” Mark threw off the covers, padded barefoot to the bathroom.
Polly had prepped the curd for pancakes the night before—just needed a mashed banana, flour, then frying. Soon, the sweet scent filled the kitchen.
“Smells lush.” Maisie appeared in the doorway, tousled, squinting in her pyjamas. Sunlight broke through the clouds, glinting off the kettle.
Suddenly, Maisie clapped a hand to her mouth and vanished. Polly froze, then bolted after her.
“Maisie, open up. You alright?” She listened, then rapped on the locked bathroom door. The tap ran. “Maisie!” Her fists thudded harder.
Dread clawed at her. Maybe just a stomach bug—but then it hit her. Ice flooded her veins. *No. Not Maisie. Not my girl. A-levels, uni plans… God, why?*
Burnt pancakes. Polly dashed to the stove, scraping charred bits into the bin. The shock steadied her. *Don’t panic.*
The doorbell rang—Mark back from his jog? She flung it open. A young man stood there, holding tulips.
“Hello, Mrs. Dawson. These are for you.” He smiled, offering the bouquet.
“Ta,” Polly stammered, taking them. “Maisie’s… in the loo.”
He stepped inside but lingered, jacket on. His nervous glance told her everything.
“So it’s you?” she hissed. “You realise I could have you arrested?”
He paled. “I came to talk. I love Maisie. I’ll stand by her—”
Maisie emerged, pale and shaken. Her eyes darted between them.
“You?” she echoed.
“Someone explain,” Polly snapped. “Why’s she sick mornings? You?”
“Mum!” Maisie thrust out her hands. “It’s fine.” She fled to her room.
“Maisie!”
The lock clicked. Mark walked in.
“Secret admirer?” He nodded at the tulips. “Hope you cheered—heard you from the stairs.”
“Cheers? He’s—” Polly choked.
“I love your daughter. I want to marry her,” the boy blurted, red as a beet.
“Blimey. Thought I’d need to duel for my wife’s honour,” Mark joked. “Maisie’s still in sixth form. Suppose we’re having *that* chat. Your name?”
“Ethan. Ethan Whitmore. I didn’t mean—”
“Jacket off. Kitchen. Polly, vase for those.” Mark vanished into the shower.
His calm steadied her. She arranged the tulips, their cheer clashing with her dread. Back to the pancakes.
The sun hid, as if dodging her fury. Soon, a stack warmed the plate. Polly set the table. Mark returned, smelling of mint gel.
“Pancakes! Maisie, table!” He eyed Polly. “So?”
Before she could speak, Ethan shuffled in. Daylight made him look even younger. Mark nudged a chair. Ethan sat, staring at his plate.
Maisie reappeared, washed, changed. *Maybe I imagined it?* Polly fumbled for the sugar bowl.
“Pol, sit.” Mark forked two pancakes onto Ethan’s plate. “You not eating?” He glanced at Maisie.
“Not hungry.”
Polly’s stomach knotted. *Afraid she’ll be sick again?*
“You too?” Mark asked Polly. She shook her head, fleeing to the lounge.
Mark followed. “What happened?”
“Maisie’s—” Footsteps cut her off. Ethan and Maisie hovered.
“Right. Why’s my missus in bits?” Mark crossed his arms.
Ethan cleared his throat. “I’ll take responsibility. I love Maisie. We’ll marry.”
Mark sobered. “Bit young for that, lad.”
Polly cut in. “Because our daughter’s pregnant.”
“Mum!” Maisie’s voice cracked.
“True?” Mark slapped his knees. “Your folks know about this?”
“Yeah. Dad knows,” Ethan muttered, scarlet.
“And you?” Mark turned to Maisie. “Won’t shout. Won’t say you’re too young. But—abortion’s no light thing. Might cost you later.”
“Mark!” Polly gasped.
“Easy.” He held her back.
“We’re keeping it,” Ethan said firmly.
“You’re seventeen,” Polly seethed. “Ever heard of condoms? Uni’s ruined. No sleep, no life—you’ll hate each other by Christmas!”
“Polly, *enough*,” Mark growled. “First, she finishes school. No gossip. She can study remotely.”
“You’re *okay* with this?”
“What should I do? Thrash him? Or shall we send her to the clinic? She’d never forgive us.”
Polly sobbed. “Thirty-seven and a *grandma*?”
“I’ll get a job,” Ethan said.
“Job? Army’ll call you up. Then what?”
“Won’t happen.”
“Oh, *brilliant*. Dodging service too?” Polly sneered.
“He’s not dodging. His dad’s sorting deferment. Military connections,” Mark mused. “Clever lad.”
“Clever? He’s wrecked her life!”
“You said the same when she was three and drew on the walls,” Mark sighed. “This isn’t terminal illness. We’ll manage.”
Ethan spoke up. “We’ve space. My nan’s retired—she’ll help. I won’t abandon them.”
“*Happy* Women’s Day indeed,” Polly muttered.
“Ethan, time to go. We’ll speak with your dad,” Mark said.
***
News of a teenage pregnancy is a gut-punch for any parent. But love means facing storms together—not becoming the storm.
Compromises were struck: Maisie and Ethan would stay put till school ended, avoiding gossip. A quiet wedding after, then shared digs. Uni via distance learning.
Would they last? Only time would tell. But parenthood isn’t about perfection—it’s about showing up, come what may.
