Polly had always been a well-behaved child. She did well in school and never caused her mother or grandmother any serious trouble. But in her final year at school, she fell in love, and everything changed. Polly started skipping classes, talking back, and wearing heavy makeup. Veronica, her mother, stumbled upon expensive cosmetics in her daughter’s drawer one day.
“Where did you get these?” Veronica asked.
“They were a gift,” Polly replied casually.
“From who?”
“Anton.”
“Oh? And where does a schoolboy get that kind of money?” Veronica assumed Anton was one of Polly’s classmates.
“He’s not in school. He works.”
Just like that, Veronica learned her daughter wasn’t just dating some boy—she was seeing a grown man who had already finished university and was earning his own wage.
“Do you even realise how young you are to be involved with someone like that?” Veronica pressed.
“I’m not a child. You did it at my age, why shouldn’t I?”
Veronica blinked in shock.
“I wasn’t dating a grown—wait, are you pregnant?”
“Yes, Mum,” Polly burst out, her voice cracking. “You had me at eighteen. Like mother, like daughter, right? You always say I take after you.”
Veronica stared at her in horror.
“I’m leaving.” Polly pushed past her towards the door.
“Where are you going? We’re not done talking!” Veronica rushed after her. “Have you even done your homework? Your exams are coming up.” She hovered as Polly tied her trainers.
Polly suddenly straightened, blew a strand of hair from her face, and glared.
“Homework? Really? What about you, Mum? Who’s keeping you out all those evenings? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
Veronica had believed herself careful, convinced her daughter was too wrapped up in herself to suspect anything. With a triumphant smirk, Polly stormed out.
“Polly!” Veronica cried helplessly at the closed door.
She trudged back to the sofa, sinking into the cushions. Her daughter had grown up—and with that came grown-up problems. Pregnant… Dear God, it couldn’t be! She’d waited too long to have that talk, assuming Polly was still a child. Now she had to act fast. But who could she turn to? Only one person.
“Mum… Polly’s seeing an older man. She’s pregnant,” Veronica blurted into the phone, her words frantic.
“Are you sure you’re not jumping to conclusions?”
“No—she admitted it herself. I don’t know what to do. She won’t listen to me…”
“She’s just like you. You never listened to me either. Should’ve married that… what was his name?”
“I didn’t love him! This isn’t about me.”
“It is about you. If you’d settled down properly, Polly would’ve had a father. She wouldn’t be looking for one in older men.”
The truth of it stung.
“Mum… why didn’t you let me have an abortion?” Veronica whispered.
“Do you regret having Polly?”
“No, of course not, but—”
“Then that’s your answer. Just imagine life without her. Don’t shout at her or push her—it’ll only make things worse.”
They talked for hours. Veronica stayed up, waiting. When Polly finally returned, she stepped into her room just as her daughter pulled off her jumper. Veronica’s gaze flickered to her bare stomach. Polly had always been slender, but now, faint rounding was visible. So it was true. A hot wave of panic shot through Veronica.
“How far along? Three, four months?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Polly flinched, clutching the jumper to her stomach.
“My girl…” Veronica moved closer, wrapping her arms around her. “I won’t shout. I just want to help. Tell me everything.”
Polly lifted tear-filled eyes.
“He promised I wouldn’t get pregnant,” she choked out.
“Does he know?”
A nod.
“And?”
“I’m sorry, Mum.”
“Don’t cry. How did you even meet? Where does he work?”
“He’s at… Mum, he’s good. We’ll marry after exams. He rents a flat near ours.”
“So, he’s not from here?”
“No. Graduated from polytechnic last year.”
“You’re keeping it? What about uni?”
“No. Maybe later…” Polly avoided her eyes.
“Alright. It’s late. Get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.” Veronica left, her mind racing.
Sleep was impossible. Who could rest after news like that? Her own past played out behind her eyelids—her school crush, the party where things had gone too far, the denial, then the test. Her mother had marched to his parents’ house, only to be met with accusations.
“She led him on! We won’t let her ruin his future!”
“And what are you implying?” her mother had fired back. “My husband died when Polly was three—heart attack. Maybe teach your son to take responsibility instead of blaming a girl!”
She’d forced Veronica into distance learning, talked her out of abortion. It had been brutal.
Now Polly was repeating history. And Veronica was about to be a grandmother at thirty-six.
She’d tried reasoning with Polly the next day, urging her to reconsider—”You’ll regret it. I know how hard it is”—but Polly had cut her off.
“Did you ever regret having me?”
“At first, yes. But not later. I love you, that’s why I’m trying to protect you.”
Polly’s face hardened. They’d marry after exams, she insisted.
Later, Veronica confessed to Oliver, her much younger boyfriend.
“This is good news!” He’d beamed. “Once Polly’s settled, we can marry—you’ll move in with me.”
Polly married Anton in August. Yet Veronica delayed moving in with Oliver—until Polly asked to stay with her after their landlord evicted them for the pregnancy.
“Of course,” Veronica agreed instantly.
But how would they all fit? So she went to Oliver’s.
“Finally!” He’d kissed her. “You’re moving in tomorrow.”
Yet days stretched into weeks, and Polly showed no sign of leaving. Veronica said nothing.
Then she fell ill—nausea, dizziness. A test confirmed it: pregnant.
But the timing was absurd—a baby the same age as her grandchild? She kept it secret.
Then Polly gave birth. Veronica rushed to help—exhausted, run ragged. Until, one day, she collapsed at Polly’s.
“Mum, are you pregnant? Have you lost your mind?” Polly shrieked.
“I’m thirty-six, not dead!”
Polly called Oliver, betraying her secret. He was ecstatic, then furious she’d hid it.
“Polly wants me to end it. Maybe she’s right—a son the same age as my grandson?”
“Don’t you dare!”
But weeks later, a sharp pain, blood—a miscarriage.
“This is her fault!” Oliver raged. “She didn’t want you to have it!”
“Don’t blame my daughter!”
“And what about me?” he snapped.
She’d screwed up. He left, slamming the door.
When he didn’t return, she packed her bags—until he walked back in.
“I knew you’d run. Forgive me.” He took her suitcase. “You’re burned out. Polly’s grown—let her handle her life.”
He booked them a holiday. Against protests, they flew to Spain. Slowly, Veronica relaxed. Polly managed fine without her.
“You’re engaged?” Polly asked when they spoke. “I’m happy for you.”
Veronica almost didn’t recognise her daughter’s voice.
Back home, she and Oliver filed marriage papers. Polly visited weekends with little Paul. Oliver doted on him.
“You’ll swim, cycle, ski—I’ll teach you!” He tossed the giggling boy.
Watching them, Veronica ached—for Oliver’s lost fatherhood, for her own lost child, for Polly, thrust too soon into adulthood.
But she was only thirty-seven. Maybe she’d try again. She deserved love. She deserved happiness.
