Polly climbed the stairs to her office, relieved not to bump into any colleagues. She wasn’t in the mood for pitying looks or awkward questions. Slipping into her cubicle, she barely had a moment to breathe before Gillian—her ever-chatty office mate—leaned over, eyes wide with gossip.
“Oh, Polly, love, you’ll never guess! Old Mr. Thompson’s been pensioned off, and they’ve brought in some young hotshot director. Bit of a tyrant, honestly—clearing out anyone over fifty. Reckon I’m next. How’s little Jeremy doing, by the way?”
Polly sank into her chair, scanning the room. She could feel Gillian watching, waiting.
“Come off it, Gillian. Sack the whole office, then who’ll do the work? They’ll fire me first—I’m always off with Jeremy’s hospital visits. He needs a bone marrow transplant, and I’ve got no savings left. Charities have waiting lists longer than the Tube at rush hour. And they say it can’t wait. Needs a donor, too. I’m not a match, and Mum’s too old—”
“Lord above, what’s that poor boy done to deserve this?” Gillian clucked sympathetically. “Have you tried tracking down his father?”
“Found him, then what? Doubt he’d volunteer to get carved open. And he’d never believe Jeremy’s even his—”
The door swung open, and in fluttered Alice from HR. Both women tensed—expression identical: *Uh-oh.*
“Polly, I’m so sorry to do this now, but… well, there’s been a decision—”
“Spit it out,” said Polly, mentally kicking herself. *I jinxed it.*
Alice hesitated, glancing at Gillian like she needed backup.
“What, the new boss wants me gone? Not happening.” Polly shot up so fast she nearly toppled Alice, then stormed out before another word could stop her.
Voices called after her in the hall, but Polly was already halfway to the director’s office, heels clicking like Morse code for *Absolutely not.* She barely registered the latecomers greeting her—her mind was a loop of, *He can’t. He won’t.*
The reception desk was manned by a glossy-haired woman who looked freshly airbrushed, blouse unbuttoned just *so*.
“Where’s Margaret?” Polly demanded.
The receptionist flashed a veneer-perfect smile, but Polly didn’t wait for an answer. She grabbed the office door handle.
“You can’t go in! He’s in a meeting—!”
Too late. Polly stepped inside—and froze.
The director glanced up, irritation shifting to surprise as Glossy Hair squawked, “Mr. Whitmore, I *tried* to stop her—!”
“It’s fine, Lottie. Wait outside.” The door shut, leaving silence.
Twelve years. Twelve years since she’d last seen him, and he didn’t even recognize her. At first, it stung. Then—*Good. Easier this way.*
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing.
Polly stayed standing. “Polly Anne Whitaker. Marketing. By what right are you sacking me? My son’s ill—I *have* to take him to hospital. Mr. Thompson understood. Even let me work from home. But you—”
Paul Whitmore—*Director* Whitmore—leaned back in his ludicrously expensive chair, studying her. She faltered, heat rising. *Mr. Thompson had a folding chair.*
“HR said your daughter’s unwell. Tragic, but you’re never here. Others cover your workload. Is that fair?” His tone was headmaster-ish, like she’d forgotten her homework.
“*Son*,” Polly corrected.
“Pardon?”
“Jeremy’s a boy. If you sack us, we’re done for.” Her voice cracked despite herself.
“Children of your own? A mother? Would *you* clock in if they were dying?” She met his gaze squarely.
“What’s wrong with him?” Paul asked, bored.
“Leukaemia. Fancy a biology lesson?” Her words shook.
His brow furrowed. “Have we met? Your face is… familiar.”
Polly’s pulse spiked. Lie? Truth? The pause stretched dangerously.
“We—university. New Year’s Eve. Your mate’s dorm. You played guitar, then…” Her cheeks burned.
“…Polly?” *Finally.* She almost laughed. *What comes next, Paul?*
“Didn’t recognize you. Sorry.” He dropped the “Ms. Whitaker.” “How can I help?”
“Don’t sack me. Jeremy needs that transplant. I’m out of options.” She pressed her palms to her eyes, willing the tears back.
“No husband, then,” he stated.
Polly lowered her hands. They stared at each other. Then Paul stood, circling the desk.
“Tell me—is he mine?”
“No,” Polly said too quickly. Last thing she needed was him thinking this was some shakedown.
“Where’s his father?”
“What’s it matter? Can I go?” She moved to leave.
“I’ll… see what I can do,” he called after her.
Back at her desk, Gillian pounced. “Well?”
“It’s fine,” Polly sighed.
“Knew he wasn’t a monster. Everyone’s got a mother.”
But Polly was back in that snowy New Year’s Eve, walking streets lit by fairy lights. His kiss had tasted of chocolate. Coffee at hers—*Mum’s out all night*—his laugh as he fumbled with the guitar.
All the girls fancied him. Rich dad, rebel vibe. But he’d looked at *her* that night, and she’d been daft enough to believe it. Then—poof. Gone after break. “Family emergency,” rumours said.
When the test turned positive, pride kept her from chasing him. She’d wept, switched to night classes, raised Jeremy alone.
Never dreamed they’d meet like this—him as her *boss*. *Fine*, she told herself. *My boy. I’ll do anything.*
At home, Mum fretted over Jeremy’s untouched dinner. “Oh, love… why *him*?”
“Mum, *please*. Your blood pressure.”
Later, the doorbell rang.
Paul stood there, eyeing the cramped flat, landing on a photo of Jeremy—age nine, grinning, healthy.
“Tea? I’ve got shepherd’s pie,” Mum offered.
“Starving. Hotel food’s grim.” He ate under their joint scrutiny.
“Who’s here?” Jeremy called weakly.
Polly jumped up.
“Mind if I…?” Paul asked.
She couldn’t refuse.
In Jeremy’s room, Paul’s face tightened. The boy was all sharp bones and shadows now.
“You’re Mum’s boss?” Jeremy whispered.
“Yeah. And no, I’m not sacking her.”
Jeremy blinked. “You’re lying to make me feel better.”
“Spoke to a London clinic. They’ll fast-track your op. Just hang on.”
Jeremy studied him. “…Money?”
“Sorted. Now—” Paul turned to Polly.
In the hall, he pulled out a DNA kit. “He’s mine, isn’t he? Spitting image. If it’s a match, I’ll donate.”
“You don’t owe—”
“You *want* him well, don’t you?”
Later, Mum wept. “He’s the father? Thank God.”
Jeremy, ever-sharp, murmured, “Heard it all. He’ll really do it?”
Polly tucked him in. “You’re too clever for your own good.”
“Am I getting better?”
“*Yes.* Now sleep.”
Two days later, they drove to London, Jeremy asleep in the back. Paul talked—forced marriage, loveless, ended clean. No kids. Estranged from his father.
Polly confessed—waiting at uni, the pregnancy, the silence.
“Thank you,” she said as the city skyline appeared.
“Wait till he’s well.”
The transplant worked. Paul left first, but sent a car when Jeremy was discharged.
Home again, Paul brought Jeremy a proper camera. “For your *second* life,” he said.
Mum cried into the dishes. Over dinner, Jeremy lasted ten minutes before nodding off.
At the door, Paul fumbled. “Too soon, but… marry me? Ask Jeremy. Your mum.”
“Out of obligation?”
“Out of *wanting to.*” He hugged her.
Inside, Mum pounced. “Well? Proposal or not?”
“Asked me to think about it.”
“*Think?!* That man’s a saint!”
Jeremy peeked in. “I vote yes.”
Months later, Jeremy’s walls were plastered with photos. Paul got a bigger flat. Polly kept pinching herself.
“Practice being happy,” Paul would say. “We get tested soAnd as Jeremy snapped a photo of them all laughing around the Christmas tree—healthy, whole, and finally home—Polly realized the best miracles weren’t the ones you prayed for, but the ones life surprised you with when you least expected them.
