Polly climbed the stairs to the second floor of the office, relieved to find no colleagues in sight. She couldn’t bear their pitying glances or the inevitable questions. Hurriedly, she slipped into her office.
“Polly, there you are,” exclaimed Margaret, her coworker and confidante. “You’ve missed quite the stir! They’ve retired Mr. Thompson, and this new director’s taken his place. Young but strict—clearing out anyone near pension age. I’ll be next, mark my words. How’s Jeremy? Any better?”
Polly sank into her chair, scanning the room. She could feel Margaret’s eyes on her, waiting.
“Don’t fret, Margaret. If he sacks everyone, who’ll do the work? They’ll let me go first—I’m always off with Jeremy. He needs a bone marrow transplant. I haven’t the funds, and the charities have waiting lists. Time’s running out, and we still need a donor. I’m not a match, and Mum’s too old—”
“Good heavens, what’s that poor lad done to deserve this?” Margaret murmured, genuine sympathy in her voice. “Have you tried finding Jeremy’s father?”
“And if I do? He might refuse. It’s no small procedure. And he’d never believe Jeremy’s even his—”
The door swung open, and Alice from HR stepped in. Both women turned, their faces tense.
“They said you’d returned. Polly, I hate to do this now, but there’s an order—” she hesitated.
“Go on,” Polly said, though inwardly she cursed her own luck.
Alice glanced at Margaret, as if seeking backup.
“What, has the new director decided to sack me too? Not likely.” Polly shot up so abruptly she nearly knocked Alice over, then stormed out.
Alice called after her, but Polly’s heels were already clicking down the corridor. Latecomers greeted her, but she ignored them. “No, no, no. He can’t do this,” she muttered.
She halted in the reception area, startled by the secretary—a polished young woman straight from a glossy magazine, crisp white blouse undone just enough to tease.
“Where’s Mrs. Harris?” Polly demanded.
The girl parted her lips, revealing perfect teeth. But Polly didn’t wait, striding to the director’s door.
“You can’t go in! He’s in a meeting!” The secretary darted forward, but Polly was already turning the knob.
She stepped inside and froze. The secretary squeezed past, flustered.
“I tried to stop her, Mr. Whitmore!” she simpered.
“It’s fine, Emily. Leave us.” The director dismissed her with a wave. “What can I do for you?”
Polly recognized him instantly—twelve years hadn’t erased his face. Yet he showed no flicker of recognition. At first, she felt a stab of hurt. Then decided it was for the best.
“Take a seat.” He gestured to the chairs.
Polly remained standing. “I’m Polly Andrews from marketing. By what right do you sack me? My son’s ill—I’ve no choice but to be with him. Mr. Thompson understood, even helped financially. I worked from home—”
The director leaned back in his leather chair, studying her. She faltered under his gaze. “Mr. Thompson had a plain chair,” she thought bitterly.
“I was told your daughter was ill. Sympathies, but your absences burden others. Is that fair?” His tone was schoolmasterly.
“Son,” she corrected.
“Pardon?”
“I have a son, not a daughter. He’s very ill. If you sack us, we’ve nothing.” Her voice trembled despite her resolve.
“Do you have children? A mother? If they fell ill, would you shrug and carry on?” She steadied herself, meeting his eyes.
“What’s wrong with your boy?” he asked, indifferent.
“Leukaemia. Do you even know what that is?” Her voice broke.
“Have we met? Your face seems familiar.” His gaze was probing.
Polly’s mind raced. The pause stretched dangerously.
“We… went to university together. Different groups. New Year’s Eve—I visited a friend in halls. You played guitar, then…” She flushed, dropping her eyes.
“Polly?”
“Finally,” she thought savagely.
“Sorry, I didn’t recognize you.” He shifted to familiarity. “How can I help?”
“Don’t sack me. Jeremy needs that transplant. I’m at my wit’s end.” She covered her face, hiding tears.
“No husband, I take it,” he stated.
Polly lowered her hands, straightening. They locked eyes. Then he stood, rounding the desk.
“Tell me—is he my son?”
“No,” she said quickly. The last thing she needed was him thinking she’d sprung a child on him after all these years.
“Where’s his father, then?”
“What does it matter? May I go?” She moved to leave.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he called after her.
“Well?” Margaret asked when she returned.
“He’ll think on it,” Polly sighed.
“Hardly a monster, then. He’s got a mother too.”
Polly remembered that New Year’s Eve—snow dusting the streets, fairy lights twinkling in windows. He’d kissed her at her door, his lips sweet like chocolate. Then asked for coffee. Her mother was out all night…
He’d played guitar beautifully. She’d seen him at lectures but never imagined they’d spend the night together.
The girls said his father was someone important. Paul had left to avoid nepotism whispers. Women flocked to him, but none captured his heart.
The way he’d looked at her—Polly had thought he loved her. How naïve. Sweet words, a guitar, a kiss… Then he’d vanished after the holidays. Rumour said he’d transferred home. Family trouble.
When she learned she was pregnant, pride kept her from seeking him. She’d wept, switched to distance learning, and raised Jeremy alone.
She never thought they’d meet again—least of all like this. “What now?” she asked herself. “Nothing. He’s my boy. Only mine. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
At home, she asked her mother about Jeremy.
“He ate a little. Oh, Polly, why must he suffer so?” her mother fretted.
“Don’t, Mum. Your blood pressure.”
Her mother dabbed her eyes. Over supper, Polly mentioned Paul—omitting Jeremy’s paternity. But her mother’s sharp eyes missed nothing.
“He won’t sack you, then?”
“He promised to help.”
“Polly!” her mother called from the hallway. “Someone’s here.”
She found Paul at the door.
“You?”
“I wanted to see you.” His gaze lingered on a photo atop the bookshelf.
“My son. He was nine there.” She didn’t add, “Before he got sick.” It was obvious.
“Tea? Or supper?” her mother offered.
“Don’t mind if I do. Hotel food grows tiresome.”
Her mother bustled about while Polly and she watched him eat.
“Mum, who’s here?” Jeremy called.
Polly shot up.
“May I?” Paul asked.
She couldn’t refuse. Together, they entered. Seeing Jeremy through Paul’s eyes—pale, hollow-eyed—her heart clenched.
“How are you? I’m Paul. You’re Jeremy?”
“Who’re you?”
“Your mum’s boss.”
“You won’t sack her, will you?”
“Who told you that?”
“Mum said she’s always off because of me. That you could fire her.”
“Not a chance. Spoke to a London clinic—they’ll operate soon. You’ll be running about in no time.”
Jeremy studied him.
“And the money?”
“Sorted. Now, I must speak with your mum.”
Back in the hall, Paul turned to her.
“Tell me—Jeremy’s mine, isn’t he? That photo… At first glance, I thought it was me. We’re the image of each other. Here’s a swab—get his DNA. If it’s a match, I’ll donate. I’m certain.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Want him well? Go on. I’ll rush the test. The money’s covered.”
Polly stood dumbstruck. Behind Paul, her mother gestured wildly for her to comply.
Later, her mother wept. “He’s the father? Thank God. Polly, I scarcely dare hope—”
“Was that my dad?” Jeremy asked when she returned. “He’ll be my donor?”
“Too clever by half,” Polly said, tucking him in.
“Sick kids grow up fast.”
“Hungry?”
“Gran fed me. I’m not mad you lied about him dying. Did you love him? Why’s he only come now?”
“Too many questions. Sleep’s the best medicine now.”
Two days later, they drovePaul held Polly’s hand tightly as they watched Jeremy chase seagulls along the Brighton pier, his laughter ringing clear and strong, and for the first time in years, Polly knew their family was finally whole.
