“Is That My Son?”
Polly climbed the stairs to the second floor of the office, relieved not to bump into any colleagues. She wasn’t in the mood for sympathetic looks or awkward questions. Slipping into her office, she shut the door behind her.
“Polly, love, there you are!” chirped Gloria Jenkins, her desk mate. “You’ve missed all the drama. Old Mr. Thompson’s been pensioned off, and they’ve brought in some young hotshot as the new director. Strict as they come, sacking all the ‘deadwood’—I reckon I’m next. How’s little Jake doing, by the way?”
Polly slumped into her chair, scanning the room. She could feel Gloria’s expectant gaze.
“Oh, come off it, Gloria. If he sacks everyone, who’ll do the work? He’ll can me first—I’m always off with Jake. He needs a bone marrow transplant, and we can’t afford it. The charities have waiting lists longer than the queue for tea at Wimbledon. And we need a donor. I’m not a match, and Mum’s too old…”
“Good Lord, the poor lamb doesn’t deserve this,” Gloria clucked sympathetically. “Have you tried tracking down Jake’s dad?”
“And do what? Even if I found him, why would he risk being a donor? It’s not exactly a walk in the park. Besides, he’d never believe Jake’s…”
Just then, the door swung open, and in bustled Alice from HR. Both women turned, their faces frozen in identical expressions of dread.
“I heard you were back. Polly, I hate to do this now, but there’s an order…” Alice faltered.
“Spit it out,” Polly said dryly, thinking, *Here we go.*
Alice glanced at Gloria like a drowning woman clutching at straws.
“What, has the new director decided to sack me too? Over my dead body.” Polly shot up so fast she nearly bowled Alice over, then stormed out before the poor woman could react.
Alice shouted something after her, but Polly was already stomping down the corridor in a blur of righteous fury. Colleagues greeted her, but she barely registered them. *Oh no, he doesn’t. He can’t. I’ll—*
She barged into the reception area and stopped dead. Behind the secretary’s desk sat a young woman straight off the cover of *Vogue*—flawless, glowing, with the top buttons of her blouse tantalisingly undone.
“Where’s Beverley?” Polly demanded.
The girl opened her mouth, revealing a set of toothpaste-ad teeth, but Polly didn’t wait. She grabbed the door handle.
“Wait, you can’t go in! There’s a meeting!” The secretary darted forward, but Polly was already yanking the door open.
She stepped inside and froze.
The new director looked up.
The secretary scrambled in after her. “I tried to stop her, Mr. Whitmore!” she squeaked.
“It’s fine, Lucy. You can go,” he said smoothly, and the girl vanished.
Polly recognised him instantly—twelve years hadn’t erased that face. But his blank stare told her he didn’t share the memory. At first, she felt a stab of hurt. Then relief. Maybe it was better this way.
“Come in, sit down,” he said, gesturing to the chairs.
Polly stayed standing. “I’m Polly Andrews from marketing. On what grounds are you sacking me? My son’s ill—I have to take him to hospital. Mr. Thompson understood. He even helped financially. I worked from home—”
The director leaned back in his absurdly expensive leather chair (Mr. Thompson’s had been sensible nylon) and studied her with infuriating calm. She stumbled over her words, hating herself for it.
“I was told your *daughter* was sick. Sympathy doesn’t pay wages, Ms. Andrews. Your colleagues pick up your slack. Is that fair?” His tone was patronising, like he was scolding a naughty schoolgirl.
“*Son*,” she corrected.
“Pardon?”
“I have a son. Not a daughter. He’s very ill. If you sack me, we’ve got nothing.” Her voice cracked despite her best efforts.
“Do you have children? A mother? If they were dying, would you clock in like nothing’s wrong?” She stared him down.
“What’s wrong with your boy?” he asked, almost bored.
“Leukaemia. Know what that is?” Her voice wobbled again.
“Have we met before? You look familiar.”
The question threw her. She hesitated too long—he could toss her out any second.
“We… went to uni together. Different groups. Remember New Year’s Eve? I visited a friend in halls… You played guitar, then…” She trailed off, cheeks burning.
“Polly?”
*Finally. But what comes next?*
“Didn’t recognise you. Sorry.” He switched to a casual *you*. “How can I help?”
“Don’t sack me. Jake needs a bone marrow transplant. I don’t know what else to do.” She covered her face, hiding the tears.
“No husband, I take it?”
She dropped her hands. They locked eyes for a charged moment. Then he stood, rounded the desk, and approached her.
“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.
“Where’s his father?”
“What difference does it make? Can I go?” She turned to leave.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he called after her.
Back in the office, Gloria pounced. “Well?”
“It’s fine,” Polly sighed.
“Good. He’s not a monster. He’s got a mum too.”
But Polly was remembering that New Year’s Eve—walking through snow-lit streets, fairy lights twinkling everywhere. His kiss at her doorstep, his lips sweet like chocolate. The guitar, the laughter. The girls whispering about his posh dad. The way he’d looked at her—like she was the only one.
Then the holidays. He never came back. Rumours said he’d transferred unis. Family trouble.
When she realised she was pregnant, she never tried to find him. Too proud. Cried it out alone. Switched to distance learning.
Never dreamed they’d meet like this. *Now what?* she thought. *Nothing. He’s my boy. I’ll do whatever it takes.*
At home, she asked her mum how Jake was.
“He ate a bit. Oh, love, why us?” Her mum sniffled.
“Don’t start. Your blood pressure.”
“I’m fine.” Her mum wiped her eyes.
Over dinner, Polly told her about Paul (leaving out the fatherhood bit). Her mum kept shooting her suspicious looks.
“So he won’t sack you. That’s something.”
“Yeah. Said he’d help.”
“Mum?” Jake’s faint voice called from his room.
As she hurried to him, the doorbell rang.
“Poll! For you!” her mum shouted.
She opened the door to Paul.
“You?”
“Me. Thought I’d check in.” He scanned the cramped flat, pausing at a photo on the shelf—a grinning, healthy Jake at nine.
“Tea? Chicken and mash?” her mum offered.
“God, yes. Hotel food’s doing my head in.”
He ate hungrily, ignoring their stares.
“Mum, who’s here?” Jake called.
Polly shot up.
“Mind if I join?” Paul asked.
She couldn’t say no.
In Jake’s room, she saw her son through Paul’s eyes—pale, hollow-eyed, too thin. Her heart clenched.
“I’m Paul. You must be Jake.”
“Who’re you?”
“Your mum’s boss.”
“You won’t sack her, will you?”
“Who said that?”
“Mum said you might ’cos she’s always off with me.”
“Not a chance. In fact, I rang a London clinic. They’ll do your op soon. Hang in there, yeah?”
Jake studied him. “What about the money?”
“Sorted. Now, I need a word with your mum.”
Back in the hall, Paul pointed to the photo.
“Jake’s mine, isn’t he? Spitting image. Here’s a swab—get his DNA. If it’s a match, I’ll donate. No arguments.”
“You don’t have t—”
“Want him better or not? I’ll wait. The lab’s on standby. Money’s covered.”
Polly gaped. Behind Paul, her mum mimed frantic *go on* gestures.
She returned with the sample.
“He’s Jake’s dad? Thank God,” her mum wept after Paul left. “I dareJake turned to his mother with a quiet smile and whispered, “Mum, I think he’s going to stay this time,” as the first real sunlight in months spilled through the curtains.
