Polly stopped by the corner shop on her way home from work, already queuing at the till when she spotted Auntie Rose. Years ago, the woman had worked with Polly’s mother at the textiles factory. Out of habit, Polly always paused to exchange pleasantries whenever their paths crossed.
She paid for her groceries, stepped aside, and waited by the exit.
“Hello there,” Polly greeted as the older woman approached. “Haven’t seen you in ages.”
“Ah, Polly, love. Been poorly, stuck indoors mostly. Come, walk with me—there’s something I ought to tell you.”
Polly’s stomach twisted. Sixteen-year-old Jamie was at that difficult age, and thirteen-year-old Lottie was already boy-crazy. Had one of them done something foolish? The shopping bag dug into her palm, handles cutting deep. She thought of making an excuse, rushing off—
Too late. Auntie Rose halted, leaning in, her voice a whisper against Polly’s ear:
“Now, don’t think I’m gossiping. I’m only saying what I’ve seen with my own eyes. You’re like family, love. That husband of yours—he’s been calling on that young woman across the way. Her windows face mine. Every time he visits, she draws the curtains sharp as you please.”
Polly went cold, then hot. Of all people—Peter? Never.
“Thought you ought to know. It’s been weighing on me. You’ve got the two kids to think of. What if it’s serious? Ought to have words with him before it’s too late.”
“Right. Thanks, Auntie Rose.” Polly hurried off, barely registering that they lived on the same street, that their paths still ran parallel.
Breathless by the time she reached the terrace house, she fumbled with the key. Inside, she dropped onto the footstool, the shopping bag slipping from her grip. Tins rolled across the floor. She didn’t notice. Lottie emerged from the living room, gathering the spilled groceries.
“Put them away, I’ll—I’ll be along,” Polly managed, shooing the girl off.
*How could he? Auntie Rose saw. Others might’ve too. The kids… Had she really missed it?*
“Mum, you alright? You look peaky—”
“Just give me a moment,” Polly cut in sharply.
Lottie hesitated but left her alone.
*Thank God Peter’s not home. If he were, I’d have screamed it out right in the doorway. No thinking, just rage.*
She stood, poured water from the kettle, sipped slowly. The shaking eased, just a little. Then she started dinner. Eggs slipped from her fingers. The frying pan sizzled with minced beef patties. Between stirrings, she peered out the window, searching for the flat across the way.
The scrape of a key. Polly stiffened, turning her back to the door.
“Smells divine,” came Peter’s cheerful voice.
“Wash up. Dinner’s nearly ready.” Her words rang brittle.
“Something wrong?”
Polly swallowed. “Ran into Auntie Rose at the shop. She said—she’d been ill. I didn’t even visit.”
“That’s what’s got you in a state?”
“No. She said she’s seen you. Going into that house opposite.” The words left her lips barely louder than breath.
Peter’s jaw twitched. “That old busybody’s filling your head with—”
But his darting eyes betrayed him. Polly’s hope crumbled.
“Others have seen too. What were you thinking? If the kids found out—” Her whisper was steel. “I won’t live like this. Choose. Her, or us.”
“Pol—” His hands hovered near her shoulders.
She flinched. “Don’t touch me!”
“Mum? Dad?” Jamie stood in the doorway. Polly hadn’t even heard him come in.
“Wash your hands. Call Lottie. Dinner’s ready.” The smile she forced felt like glass.
Days passed in silence. The tension thick enough to choke on. Polly waited for Peter to beg forgiveness, to swear it was over. Instead, one evening—kids out, Jamie with mates, Lottie at a friend’s birthday—Peter cleared his throat.
“Can’t do this anymore. We need to talk.”
Polly nodded dully.
“I’m not making excuses. Just… her parents died in a car crash. Then her nan passed. She moved into the flat. I helped with the heavy lifting. Don’t know what came over me. Pity, maybe. I’d have walked away, but—she’s pregnant.”
Polly swayed, gripping the chairback.
“Haven’t seen her since that night. She met me at the steps, told me about the baby. What am I supposed to do? Leave her to it?”
“And us? The kids?” Polly’s voice cracked.
“They’re old enough to—”
“Burden them with *your* sins? Get out. Now. Before they’re back.” She snatched the TV remote, hurled it. Plastic shards sprayed. Peter caught her wrists.
“Stop. I’ll go. Just—let me see the kids.”
She wrenched free. “*Go.*”
The door clicked shut.
When Jamie returned, Polly was sweeping up the debris.
“Don’t cry, Mum. He’ll come crawling back.”
“You—*knew*?”
“Heard enough. Let him stay gone. We’re better off.”
Polly stiffened. “He’s still your father.”
Jamie’s laugh was bitter. “Mum, wake up.”
Days blurred. Spring crept in, melting the last stubborn ice. Letters arrived sporadically. Peter wrote of working reconstruction out east, sent apologies, asked after the kids.
Jamie enlisted despite her begging. Left her with just Lottie, who’d soon flee the nest too.
Polly wrote to Peter: she’d take the baby. No child of his would rot in care.
His reply was cautious—*think it through*—but he’d visit soon.
A year later, Jamie returned from service unscathed. Before she could explain little Andy’s presence, the toddler wobbled over. Jamie scooped him up, tossing him gleefully.
“You knew?” Polly gasped.
“Dad wrote.” Jamie’s voice softened. “He misses you. Always says so.”
Polly’s eyes burned. “I forgave him years ago.”
Lottie burst in then, laughter filling the room.
Later, over tea, Jamie dropped his bombshell:
“I’m going to him, Mum.”
Polly’s teacup rattled. “Absolutely not—”
His stare was firm. “I *am*.”
So she waited again, heart in her throat with each letter. Sometimes, Peter and Jamie called, voices overlapping—*miss you, love you*.
Alive. That was enough.
And little Andy tugged her sleeve, calling her *Mum* with all the certainty in the world.
