Polly climbed the stairs to the second floor of the office, relieved not to bump into any colleagues. She couldn’t bear their pitying looks or answering the same questions again. She hurried into her office and shut the door behind her.
“Polly, love, there you are!” chirped Margaret, her longtime coworker. “You’ve missed quite the drama. Mr. Thompson’s been pensioned off, and the new director’s taken his place. Young but strict—clearing out anyone near retirement. Suppose I’ll be next. How’s little Tom, any better?”
Polly sank into her chair, scanning the familiar room. She felt Margaret’s gaze lingering, waiting.
“Oh, come off it, Margaret. If he sacks everyone, who’ll do the work? They’ll fire me first—I’m always off with Tom. He needs a bone marrow transplant. The charity queues are miles long, and time’s running out. And we still need a donor. I’m no match, and Mum’s too old…”
“Lord above, what’s that poor lad done to deserve this?” Margaret sighed. “Have you tried tracking down his dad?”
“And what then? Even if I found him, he’d never agree. It’s not a walk in the park. And he’d never believe Tom’s his…”
Just then, the door swung open. Sarah from HR stepped in, twisting her hands. Both women tensed.
“They said you’d come back. Polly, I hate to pile on, but there’s an order…” she faltered.
“Spit it out,” Polly said dryly, thinking, *Here we go.*
Sarah glanced at Margaret, as if for backup.
“What, the new director’s sacking me too? Not a chance.” Polly shot up so fast she nearly knocked Sarah over, then stormed out.
Sarah called after her, but Polly’s heels were already clattering down the hall. Latecomers greeted her, but she barely noticed. *Over my dead body. He can’t do this.*
She barged into the reception area and froze. A glossy, glamorous assistant sat at the desk—like she’d stepped out of a magazine.
“Where’s Mrs. Wilkins?” Polly demanded.
The girl flashed a perfect smile, but Polly didn’t wait. She grabbed the director’s door handle.
“You can’t go in! He’s in a meeting!” The assistant darted over, but Polly shoved the door open.
She stepped inside—and went rigid.
The assistant scurried in after her. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Whitmore! She just burst in—”
“Enough, Lucy. Leave us.” The director cut her off, and she vanished. His eyes locked onto Polly.
She recognized him instantly. Twelve years hadn’t erased that face. But he didn’t know her. At first, it stung—then she decided it was better this way.
“Take a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chairs.
Polly stayed standing. “I’m Polly Harrison from marketing. On what grounds are you firing me? My son’s ill—I have to be with him. Mr. Thompson understood, even helped with costs. I worked from home—”
The director leaned back in his leather chair, studying her. She faltered under his gaze. *Mr. Thompson had a fabric chair.*
“I heard it was your daughter. Sympathies, but you’re never here. Others pick up your slack. Fair?” His tone was clipped, like scolding a child.
“*Son*,” she corrected.
“Pardon?”
“I have a son, not a daughter.” Her voice shook. “If you sack us, we’ve got nothing.”
“Do *you* have children? A mother? If they were dying, would you clock in like nothing’s wrong?” She met his eyes squarely.
“What’s wrong with him?” he asked flatly.
“Leukaemia. Know what that means?” Her voice cracked.
His brow furrowed. “Have we met? You seem familiar.”
Polly’s mind raced. Too long a pause would get her thrown out.
“We… we were at uni together. New Year’s Eve? I visited a friend in halls… You played guitar, then…” She flushed, dropping her gaze.
“Polly?”
*Finally. But what comes next?*
“Didn’t recognize you. Sorry.” He shifted to a softer tone. “How can I help?”
“Don’t sack me. Tom needs that transplant. I’m out of options.” She covered her face, hiding the tears.
“No husband, I take it?”
She dropped her hands. They stared at each other. Then he stood, rounding the desk.
“Tell me. Is he mine?”
“No,” she said too quickly. The last thing she needed was him thinking she’d sprung a secret child on him.
“Then where’s his father?”
“What does it matter? Can I go?” She straightened, stepping toward the door.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he called after her.
Back in the office, Margaret pounced. “Well?”
“It’s fine,” Polly muttered, exhaling hard.
“See? He’s not a monster. He’s got a mum too.”
But Polly was remembering that New Year’s walk—snowflakes swirling, fairy lights glowing in windows. His kiss at her doorstep, lips sweet like chocolate. Coffee at hers because his ride was gone.
He’d been brilliant on guitar, voice smooth as honey. She’d seen him around campus but never dreamed they’d share that night.
Rumour said his father was some big shot. Paul had left to prove he wasn’t riding coattails. Girls flocked to him, but none stuck—until her.
Or so she’d thought.
He’d vanished after break. Transferred home, they said. Family trouble.
When the test turned positive, pride kept her from chasing him. She’d cried it out, switched to part-time studies. Never imagined they’d meet like this. *My boy. Mine alone. I’ll do whatever it takes.*
At home, she asked her mum about Tom first thing.
“He ate a bit. Oh, love, why us?” Her mum’s eyes welled up.
“Mum, please. Your blood pressure.”
A knock interrupted them. Polly opened the door—and there he was.
“You?”
“Me. Thought I’d visit.” His eyes landed on a photo on the shelf—Tom at nine, grinning.
“Before he got ill,” she said quietly.
“Tea? Or I’ve got chicken and mash,” her mum offered.
“Starving. Hotel food’s grim,” Paul admitted.
Her mum fluttered about setting the table. He ate heartily, ignoring their stares.
“Mum, who’s here?” Tom’s weak voice called.
Polly jumped up.
“Mind if I join?” Paul asked.
She couldn’t refuse.
In Tom’s room, she saw her son through Paul’s eyes—pale skin, hollow cheeks. *God, he looks shattered.*
“You Paul?” Tom whispered.
“Your mum’s boss.”
“You won’t sack her?”
“Who told you that?”
“She said… she’s off too much because of me.”
“Not happening. I rang a London clinic—they’ll operate soon. Hang in there.”
Tom studied him. “What about the money?”
“Sorted. Now, I need a word with your mum.”
Back in the living room, Paul nodded at the photo. “He’s mine, isn’t he? Spitting image.” He pulled out a vial. “Swab his cheek. If it’s a match, I’ll donate.”
“You don’t—”
“You want him well or not?”
Her mum nudged her. Stunned, Polly did it.
After he left, her mum wept. “His father! Thank heavens.”
Tom whispered when she tucked him in, “He’s my dad, right? He’ll do it?”
“You hear too much.”
“Sick kids grow up fast.”
Two days later, they were London-bound. Tom dozed in the back. Paul spoke softly—his parents had pushed him into a marriage of convenience. No love, no kids, an easy split. His father had disowned him, banished him here.
Polly confessed she’d waited for him at uni, cried when he’d disappeared…
“Thank you,” she murmured as the city skyline emerged.
“Save it till he’s safe.”
The transplant took. Paul was a perfect match. Days later, he went home while they stayed for tests. When Tom was discharged, a car fetched them.
Paul visited the next day, handing Tom a professional camera. “Now you can capture every bit of your new life.”
Tom frowned. “I use my phone.”
“Not the same. I’ll show you the tricks.”
Her mum sniffled cooking dinner. Tom joined briefly, still frail.
Later, Paul pulled Polly aside on the landing.
“I know it’s fast, but… could you ever forgive me?”
“I already have. Without you—”
“Marry me. Talk to Tom. Your mum.”Tom smiled from his bedroom doorway, gripping his new camera, as Polly whispered *yes* into Paul’s ear while the city lights twinkled outside like they had all those years ago.
