“Is he my son?”
Polly climbed the stairs to the second floor of the office, relieved to find the corridors empty. She couldn’t bear the pitying glances or the hushed questions. Slipping into her office, she shut the door behind her.
“Polly, love, you’re finally back!” chirped Gladys, her colleague from accounts. “You wouldn’t believe the drama here! Mr. Thompson’s been pensioned off, and some young hotshot’s taken over. Strict as anything—clearing out all the old-timers. Reckon I’ll be next. How’s little Tommy holding up?”
Polly sank into her chair, scanning the familiar room. She could feel Gladys’ expectant stare.
“Don’t be daft, Gladys. If he sacks everyone, who’ll bloody well work? They’ll get rid of me first—I’m always off with Tommy. He needs a bone marrow transplant. The charity queues are endless, and they say time’s running out. And we still need a donor. I’m not a match, and Mum’s too old…”
“Good Lord, what’s that poor boy done to deserve this?” Gladys gasped. “Have you tried finding his father?”
“And what if I do? You think he’d volunteer? It’s not exactly a walk in the park. Besides, he’d never believe Tommy’s even…”
The door swung open. Alice from HR hovered in the doorway, her face pinched. Both women tensed.
“They said you were back. Polly, I know it’s awful timing, but there’s been an order…” She fidgeted.
“Spit it out,” Polly said, already knowing. *Bloody jinxed it.*
Alice glanced at Gladys, then away. “It’s the new director, he’s decided to—”
“Oh, he’s sacking *me* now, is he?” Polly shot up so fast her chair scraped back. She barely dodged Alice as she stormed out, Gladys calling after her.
The office blurred past. Colleagues greeted her; she barely registered them. “No way. Not a chance. He can’t bloody well…”
She halted outside the director’s office. A polished young woman—straight out of a glossy mag—sat at the reception desk, all flawless teeth and undone blouse buttons.
“Where’s Janet?” Polly demanded.
The woman’s smile faltered. “She’s—” But Polly was already twisting the doorknob.
“You can’t go in! There’s a meeting!” The secretary lunged, but Polly shoved past.
The room fell silent. The director looked up, cool as you please. His new assistant babbled apologies.
“It’s fine, Eleanor. Leave us.” The secretary scurried out.
Polly knew him instantly. Twelve years hadn’t erased those features. But his blank stare confirmed he didn’t recognise her. *Good*, she thought. *Better this way.*
“Take a seat,” he said, gesturing.
She stayed standing. “Polly Anne Whitmore. Marketing. On what grounds are you firing me? My son’s ill—I have to hospitalise with him. Mr. Thompson understood. He let me work remotely. Helped financially…”
The director leaned back in his ludicrously expensive chair, studying her. She faltered, hating herself for noticing the difference—Thompson’s chair had been plain wood.
“They told me your *daughter* was sick. Tragic, but you’re never here. Others cover your workload. Fair?” His tone was icy, patronising.
“*Son*,” she corrected. “Tommy. And if you sack me, we’ve got nothing.” Her voice cracked. She hated the plea in it.
“Ever had a sick child? A mother?” She forced steel into her words. “Would *you* just clock in while they suffered?”
His indifference flickered. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Leukaemia. Know what that is?”
A pause. Then— “Have we met? You seem familiar.”
Her pulse spiked. Too long a silence would see her ejected.
“University. New Year’s Eve. Your guitar… I visited Sarah in halls…” Her cheeks burned.
“Polly?” *Finally.*
“You didn’t recognise me.” She almost smiled.
“Sorry.” His voice softened. “How can I help?”
“Don’t sack me. Tommy needs that transplant. I’m out of options.” She pressed her palms to her eyes, tears betraying her.
“No husband, then.”
She dropped her hands, squaring up. Their gazes locked. He stood, rounding the desk.
“Is he mine?”
“No.” Too quick. She wouldn’t have him thinking she’d trapped him, weaponised a child he never knew.
“Where’s his father?”
“Does it matter?” She turned to leave.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he called after her.
Back in her office, Gladys pounced. “Well?”
“Fine,” Polly lied, exhaling hard.
“Not a complete monster, then. He’s got a mum too.”
But Polly was remembering snow-lit streets, his guitar, the chocolate-sweet kiss at her doorstep. Coffee in her empty flat.
She’d heard the rumours—posh background, girls flocking. That night, she’d thought *she* was special. Naïve. He’d vanished after term break. *Family emergency*, they’d said.
When the pregnancy test turned blue, she hadn’t chased him. Too proud. Switched to night classes, raised Tommy alone.
Never dreamed their paths would cross like this. *So what now?* she thought fiercely. *He’s my son. I’ll do anything.*
At home, she asked her mum, “How is he?”
“Resting. Ate a bit. Oh, love, why us?”
“Don’t. Your blood pressure.”
“Fine, fine.” Her mum dabbed her eyes.
Over dinner, Polly mentioned Paul—omitting his paternity. Her mum’s shrewd stare said she suspected.
“So he won’t sack you?”
“Promised to help.”
“Mum?” Tommy’s weak voice summoned her.
The doorbell rang.
“Polly! For you,” her mum called.
Paul stood there.
“You?” Polly gaped.
“Thought I’d check in.” His eyes snagged on a photo—Tommy at nine, grinning, healthy.
“Tea? Or I’ve got roast chicken,” her mum fussed.
“Starving. Hotel food’s dire.” He ate heartily under their stunned gazes.
“Who’s here?” Tommy called.
“Mind if I…?” Paul asked.
Polly couldn’t refuse.
In Tommy’s room, she saw her son through Paul’s eyes: pale, hollow-eyed, all sharp bones. Her chest ached.
“I’m Paul. You must be Tommy.”
“Are you her boss?”
Paul nodded.
“Don’t sack her. It’s my fault she’s off.”
“Who said that?”
“Mum did.”
Paul crouched by the bed. “No one’s getting sacked. I rang a London clinic—they’ll operate soon. You’ll be right as rain.”
Tommy studied him. “What about the money?”
“Sorted. Now, I need a word with your mum.”
Back in the living room, Paul gestured to the photo. “He’s mine, isn’t he? Spitting image. Here—” He handed her a vial. “Swab his cheek. If it’s positive, I’ll donate. No arguments.”
“You don’t owe—”
“You want him cured or not?” His voice broke. “I’ll wait.”
Her mum, hovering, nudged her toward Tommy’s room.
Later, clutching the sample, Polly returned.
“He *is* his dad? Thank God,” her mum wept once Paul left.
Polly found Tommy awake. “I heard. He’s my dad, right? He’ll donate?”
“Too clever by half,” she murmured, tucking him in.
“Sick kids grow up fast.” His voice was eerily mature. “Why’d you lie? Did you love him?”
“Enough questions. Sleep. It’ll all be alright.”
Two days later, they drove to London. In the back, Tommy slept. Paul and Polly talked in hushed tones.
His parents had forced a marriage—some business alliance. It crumbled, childless. His father, furious, had exiled him here.
Polly confessed how she’d waited for him at uni, how she’d kept the baby.
“Thank you,” she whispered as London’s skyline emerged.
“Not yet. Wait till he’s safe.”
The transplant took. Paul was a perfect match.
At discharge, a car waited—Paul’s doing. Tommy, though masked, had colour in his cheeks.
The next day, Paul arrived with a professional camera. “For capturing your second chance,” he said.
Tommy frowned. “I use my phone.”
“Not the same. I’As Paul slipped the ring onto Polly’s finger beneath the Christmas lights a year later, Tommy snapped the perfect photo—a family, whole at last.
