“Everything alright in there? Maisie, open up.” Polly hammered her fists harder against the bathroom door.
Polly woke and listened. Her husband snored softly beside her. March sunlight filtered through white clouds. She glanced at the wall clock and startled, afraid she’d overslept for work—then remembered it was a bank holiday, International Women’s Day.
Right then: wash up, coffee, breakfast before Maisie and her husband woke. Polly slipped carefully from under the duvet. But Connor stirred, blinking sleepily.
“What time is it?” he mumbled.
“Half eight.”
He bolted upright.
“Relax. It’s a holiday—go back to sleep,” Polly smiled.
“So why are you up, then?” Connor pulled her into a bear hug, nuzzling her neck. “Happy Women’s Day, love. Best wife, mother of my kids.”
“Only one kid, mind you,” Polly laughed. “I’ll make breakfast. You lie in.”
“I’ll go for a run while you cook. Lovely out.” Connor tossed the duvet aside, padded barefoot to the bathroom.
Polly had prepped the cottage cheese for pancakes the night before. Just needed banana slices, flour, and frying. Soon, the kitchen filled with the sweet, buttery scent.
“Smells amazing.” Maisie appeared in the doorway, tousled-haired in shorts and a vest, squinting against the light.
A sunbeam broke through the clouds, glinting off the kettle’s steel surface.
Suddenly, Maisie clapped a hand over her mouth and vanished. Polly froze for a second—then dashed after her.
“Maisie, open up. You okay?” Polly listened, then knocked on the locked bathroom door. The tap ran. “Maisie!” She pounded harder.
Dread pooled in her chest. Polly shoved it down—probably just a stomach bug. Then a realisation hit like a gut punch. Ice flooded her veins. *No. Not Maisie. Not her—A-levels, top grades, uni plans… God, why?*
The smell of burning jerked her back. She swore, scraping charred pancakes into the bin. The distraction steadied her. *Right. Keep calm.*
The doorbell rang—Connor back from his run, surely. She hurried to answer.
A young man stood there, holding a bouquet of tulips.
“Hello, Mrs. Thompson. These are for you.” He offered the flowers with a nervous smile.
“Ta,” Polly said numbly, taking them. “Come in. Maisie’s in the loo.”
He shuffled inside but kept his jacket on, hovering awkwardly. The guilt in his eyes told Polly everything.
“So it’s you?” she hissed. “You’re the one? I could have you done for this, you know—”
The lad flinched. “I came to talk. I love Maisie. I’ll do right by her—”
Maisie emerged then, pale and shaky. Her eyes darted between them.
“You?” she echoed Polly’s question.
“Which of you’s going to explain why she’s sick every morning? You?” Polly’s voice climbed, her glare scorching.
“Mum! It’s fine,” Maisie cut in, hands raised, then fled to her room.
“Maisie! Get back here!”
The front door clicked open. Connor walked in.
“Oho—secret admirer?” He nodded at the tulips. “Hope those happy shrieks were for the flowers. Heard ‘em clear down the stairwell.”
“Happy?!” Polly choked. “He—” The words stuck in her throat.
“I love your daughter. I want to marry her,” the boy blurted, crimson to his ears.
“Blimey. And here I was getting jealous,” Connor joked. “Maisie’s still in sixth form. You too, I reckon. This calls for a proper chat. Your name?”
“Ethan. Ethan Cole. I didn’t want you thinking I’d—”
“Jacket off, mate. Polly, stick those in water. I’ll shower, then we’ll talk.” Connor vanished into the bathroom.
His presence calmed her. Polly arranged the tulips, admiring how their vibrancy brightened the kitchen. Back to the pancakes.
The sun hid behind clouds, as if wary of the brewing storm. Soon, a stack of golden pancakes sat ready. Polly laid the table. Connor returned, smelling of shower gel.
“Nice work! Maisie, get your lad in here!” he called. “So… what’s the fuss?” He studied Polly.
Before she could answer, Ethan shuffled in. Daylight made him look painfully young. Connor motioned to a chair. Ethan sat, eyes glued to his plate.
Maisie reappeared, freshened up. *Maybe I imagined it?* Polly’s hope flared. She fussed with the sugar bowl.
“Pol, leave it.” Connor forked two pancakes onto Ethan’s plate. “Sit down, Maisie.”
“Not hungry.”
Polly’s stomach knotted. *Afraid she’ll be sick again?*
“You not eating either?” Connor asked Polly. She shook her head, retreating to the living room. He followed.
“What happened?”
Before she could speak, Maisie and Ethan appeared.
“Right, son. Why’s my missus in a state?” Connor said.
Ethan cleared his throat. “I’m here to… take responsibility. I love Maisie. We’ll marry.”
“Bit sudden, isn’t it?” Connor’s tone sharpened.
“There’s a reason,” Polly interjected. “Our daughter’s pregnant.”
“Mum!” Maisie’s voice cracked.
“This true?” Connor slapped his knees, standing. “Your parents know about this, lad?”
“My dad does. I told him when Maisie told me.” Ethan met Connor’s gaze, flushing deeper.
“And you?” Connor turned to Maisie. “I won’t shout. Won’t say you’re too young. But abortion’s off the table—you’ll regret it later.”
“Connor!” Polly snapped.
“Easy.” He held up a hand. “She’s keeping it,” Ethan said firmly.
“You’re *seventeen*,” Polly hissed. “Ever heard of condoms? Maisie, your life’s ruined! No uni, no freedom—just nappies and no sleep till you *hate* each other—”
“Polly. Enough.” Connor’s voice cut through. “First, she finishes school—quietly. No gossip. She can study remotely later.”
“You’re *okay* with this?” Polly’s eyes welled.
“What’s the alternative? Belt them? Or would you rather she terminated it? She’d never forgive you if she couldn’t have kids later.” Connor’s composure frayed.
“God, *why*?” Polly turned away. “I’m *thirty-seven*. I’m not ready to be a nan! And how will you afford this?”
“I’ll get a job,” Ethan said.
“A job? Then you’ll get called up, leaving Maisie alone with a baby. Brilliant!” Polly’s cheeks flamed.
“Won’t happen.”
“He’s *ill* too?” Polly scoffed.
“My dad’s Army. He’ll sort deferment.”
“See? Lad’s got a plan.” Connor’s tone was unreadable.
“Should’ve planned *not* to knock her up,” Polly muttered.
“Pol, it’s not the end of the world. What if she’d got cancer? *That’d* be a tragedy.” He pulled her close.
She shoved him off. “Listen to yourself!”
“Look—we’ve months to prepare. We’ll meet Ethan’s dad, sort things.”
“Just Dad. My mum’s… gone,” Ethan said quietly.
Polly softened slightly. “How?”
“Cancer. Near the end, she… jumped.”
Polly winced. “Doesn’t give you the right to wreck *my* daughter’s life.”
“That’s enough.” Connor hugged Polly. “He came clean. You’ll be a cracking nan.”
“*Seriously*?” She spun to the window.
“We’ve space at ours. My nan’s retired—she’ll help,” Ethan said. “I won’t abandon them. Sorry for ruining your day.”
“Some gift,” Polly said drily.
“Best head off, son. Maisie, see him out. We’ll expect your dad,” Connor called after him.
***
A seventeen-year-old’s pregnancy is a gut punch for any parent. The best they can do? Support, not scorn.
Over tea, they agreed: until exams, Maisie and Ethan would stay put to avoid gossip. By the time she showed, they’d marry quietly. She’d move in, study remotely.
It wouldn’t be easy—newborns never are. But whether Maisie and Ethan lasted? That was theirs to decide. Parenting doesn’t come with a manual—just on-the-job training.
