Years have passed since that fateful autumn evening, yet the memory remains clear as crystal—the moment when everything changed for our family.
Polly stopped by the corner shop near her home in Manchester after work. She was already at the till when she spotted Auntie Rose—her mother’s old friend from their days at the textile mill. Whenever their paths crossed, Polly would pause for a quick chat, exchanging pleasantries as people do.
She paid for her groceries and lingered by the exit, waiting.
“Hello, Auntie Rose,” she greeted the older woman with a small smile. “Haven’t seen you about lately.”
“Polly, love,” Auntie Rose sighed. “I’ve been poorly, barely left the house. Walk with me a moment—there’s something I must tell you.”
A knot tightened in Polly’s stomach. Jack was sixteen—troublesome enough at that age—and thirteen-year-old Lily was already boy-mad. Had Lily done something foolish? The shopping bags weighed heavy in her hands, the handles cutting into her palms. Should she make an excuse and hurry away? But Auntie Rose was already speaking in a hushed voice, leaning close.
“Now don’t think me a meddler, but I’d want to know if it were my husband. I’ve seen your Peter going in and out of that house across the way—the one with the young widow. The very same one whose curtains snap shut whenever he steps inside.”
Polly felt as if she’d been doused in icy water, then set aflame. Peter—steady, dependable Peter—the last man she’d suspect.
“I couldn’t rest knowing and not telling you,” Auntie Rose continued. “You’ve two children to think of. What if it’s serious? Best speak to him now before it’s too late.”
“Right. Thank you, Auntie Rose.” Polly turned sharply and marched home, forgetting in her haste that they lived on the same street.
Breathless, she fumbled with the key before stumbling inside. She sank onto the footstool, the shopping bag slipping from her numb fingers. Tins rolled across the floor. Lily emerged, fussing over the mess, but Polly barely noticed, her mind reeling.
“Take it to the kitchen. I’ll be along,” she said, shooing her daughter away.
How could he? If Auntie Rose had seen, who else might know? And the children—had they suspected while she remained blind to it?
“Mum, you look ill,” Lily ventured.
“Go to your room. I need a moment,” Polly snapped.
Lily hesitated but obeyed.
At least Peter wasn’t home. Time to collect herself before she confronted him in fury—anger never solved anything.
She forced herself to the kitchen, gulping down water in shaky sips. The rhythmic clatter of dinner preparations steadied her hands slightly, though the minced beef nearly missed the frying pan. Every so often, she glanced out the window, searching for Auntie Rose’s house—and the one opposite.
The jangle of keys made her flinch. She pretended to focus on the stove as Peter’s footsteps approached.
“Smells brilliant,” he said cheerfully.
“Wash up. Dinner’s nearly ready,” she replied, voice taut as a wire.
“What’s wrong?” He stepped closer, searching her face.
“I saw Auntie Rose at the shop.” Polly swallowed. “She said she’d been ill—but that’s not all. She told me she’s seen you going into that house across the road.”
Peter’s expression darkened. “What else has that old gossip filled your head with?”
But the flicker in his eyes betrayed him.
“Others have seen you too,” she hissed, glancing at the door. “What if the children find out? I won’t live like this. Choose—her or us.”
“Polly—” He reached for her shoulders.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Mum? Dad?” Jack stood in the doorway, frowning. Polly hadn’t even heard him come in.
“Wash your hands and call Lily,” she managed, forcing a smile.
Days passed in brittle silence. The tension thickened, unsaid words choking the air. Polly prayed Peter would repent, swear never to see the woman again—that life might return to normal. Yet she also steeled herself for the alternative: a future without him.
One afternoon, with Jack out with friends and Lily at a birthday party, Peter cleared his throat.
“We need to talk.”
Polly nodded dully.
“I’m not making excuses,” he began. “But she lost her parents in a car crash, then her gran died not long after. She moved into the flat. I helped with the heavy lifting—then I don’t know what came over me. Pity, maybe. I’d have ended it after our row, but… she’s pregnant.”
Polly swayed, gripping the chairback.
“I haven’t seen her since. But she met me at the door last week—told me about the baby. What choice do I have?”
“And us? Your children?” Her breath came in sharp gasps.
“They’re nearly grown. They’ll understand.”
“You’d burden them with your guilt? Get out. Now—before they come home!” She seized the TV remote and hurled it at the wall. Plastic shards scattered as she scanned the room for something else to smash—but Peter caught her wrists.
“Stop. I’ll go. Just—let me see the kids.”
“Go!” She slumped onto the sofa, face in her hands. The door slammed moments later.
When Jack returned, Polly was sweeping up the wreckage.
“Don’t cry, Mum. He’ll be back.”
“You… knew?”
“Not till I heard you shouting. Good riddance. We don’t need him.”
“Don’t say that! He’s still your father.”
“He betrayed us.” Jack turned away, retreating to the room he shared with Lily—divided by a wardrobe to give each privacy. They’d planned to move somewhere bigger, once. Now, there’d be space enough.
Peter didn’t return. Three days later, Polly left work early and walked to the other woman’s flat, climbing the steps with leaden feet. The door opened before she knocked—a pretty young woman, smile vanishing at the sight of her.
“You’re his wife.” She stepped aside. “Come in.”
Polly remained rooted in the hallway.
“You knew about me?”
“Yes. He talks about you—about the children. I never meant for him to leave. After my parents died, and he looked so like my dad—”
“And his own children? Did you think of them?” Polly’s fingers itched to grab fistfuls of that glossy hair.
“He loves you. I’d have managed alone—”
“But you didn’t send him away.” Polly spun on her heel, choking on unshed tears. What had she hoped to achieve? Now the woman’s face would haunt her, a spectre in her children’s lives.
Winter came and went. Months blurred in a haze of silent meals and sleepless nights. Then, one evening, a soft knock—not the doorbell. Peter stood there, unshaven, eyes bloodshot.
“Didn’t want to wake the kids,” he muttered. “Can I come in?”
Polly stepped aside.
“She’s dead. Collapsed—I called an ambulance, but—”
“The baby?”
“Born too soon, but alive.” He rubbed his face. “I’ve hurt everyone. You, the kids—”
“Kitchen. Tea?”
“Something stronger.”
“You can’t. You’ve a child now.”
“What do I want with it?” His voice cracked. “I won’t take it from the hospital.”
“They’ll put it in care! With a living father?”
“I can’t do this.” He sank onto a chair. “I’m leaving—Liverpool, maybe. Start fresh.”
“Running away? What about your son?”
He said nothing, knuckles white.
Her heart fractured further. She hadn’t forgiven him—but neither could she turn him out. She made up the fold-out bed, listening as he tossed for hours.
At breakfast, they pretended nothing had changed.
“Stay,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “This is best. I’ll write—if you’ll answer.”
“I will.”
When Jack and Lily woke, Jack dodged Peter’s embrace. Lily clung to him, weeping.
Time trudged on. Spring melted the last stubborn snow. Peter’s letters came sporadically—apologies, updates, love sent to the children.
Jack finished school and enlisted despite Polly’s pleas.
“You can’t leave us too!” She wept, even dropped to her knees. But he was resolute.
Then it was just her and Lily—until soon, Lily would fly the nest as well. In the quiet, Polly made her decision. She wrote to Peter: she would take the boy from foster care. No child of his would grow up an orphan.
Peter wrote back hesitantly—was she certain? It would be hard alone. He’d try to visit.
A year later, Jack returned from service unharmed. Polly,Little Andrew toddled over to his brother, and as Jack scooped him up with a laugh, Polly realized—despite the heartache—their family, though changed, would always find its way back to each other.
