Timmy and his mum lived just the two of them. Not that Timmy didn’t have a father—technically, he did—but the man had no interest in being one. For now, Timmy hadn’t asked questions. In nursery, kids cared more about whose toy lorry had the best wheels than the presence or absence of a dad.
Emily had decided it was better if Timmy never knew how blindly she’d fallen for his future father, only for the man to announce—once she told him about the pregnancy—that he was married. Yes, he had “problems” with his wife, but leaving wasn’t an option because her father was his boss. Lose her, and he’d be left skint, and what good would a broke bloke be to Emily? Better to “sort it out” now, he’d suggested, since she wouldn’t see a penny in child support anyway. And if she tried anything… well, she’d regret it.
So Emily vanished from his life and raised Timmy alone. Turned out just fine—Timmy was a sweet lad, and that was enough.
Emily taught Year 3 at a primary school in Manchester, while five-year-old Timmy attended nursery. They didn’t need anyone else.
After New Year’s, a new PE teacher joined the school—tall, fit, and perpetually grinning. Every single female staff member (which was most of them) immediately sized him up, flirting over lukewarm tea in the staff room. All except Emily, who ignored his jokes and kept her eyes on her marking. Maybe that’s why he noticed her.
One afternoon, as Emily stepped out of school gates, a Land Rover pulled up beside her. Out stepped Mr. Graves—PE teacher extraordinaire—who swung the passenger door open with a flourish.
“Hop in,” he said, nodding at the seat.
“Oh, I—it’s not far. I can walk,” Emily fumbled.
“Course you can. But why walk when you can ride in style?”
Emily hesitated but slid in. Mr. Graves shut the door, started the engine, and asked for her address.
“I don’t—well, I know the nursery’s postcode,” she admitted, cheeks pink.
“Nursery?” He blinked.
“My son’s nursery.”
“You’ve got a kid? How old?” He’d switched to first-name terms already.
“Timmy. He’s five.” Emily gripped the door handle. “Actually, I’ll walk.”
“Wait.” He turned the key. “Let’s go.”
She closed the door. Fine. Let him drive her. It wasn’t like anything could happen between them anyway. What man would want a woman “with baggage” when there were plenty of child-free options?
“If you’re not in a rush…” Emily sighed.
“Nowhere to be. No wife, no kids,” he offered unprompted.
“Why’s that? Terrible temper? Women run screaming?”
“Crikey, feisty. Wouldn’t have guessed from those quiet looks. Been in love, been hurt. Never made it to the altar—not always my fault. And my temper’s no worse than yours, Miss Emily Smith.”
“Regretting offering me a lift? Turn left here.”
The car stopped outside the nursery.
“I’ll wait,” Mr. Graves said as Emily stepped out.
She lingered. “Don’t. We live close. I’d rather Timmy didn’t ask questions. Understood, Mr. Graves?” She shut the door firmly and walked off.
Ten minutes later, she emerged holding Timmy’s hand, exhaling—equal parts relief and disappointment. Of course. A woman with a kid wasn’t what he wanted. Fine. “We don’t need him either,” she thought.
But the next day, there he was again.
“Thought I’d scarpered after hearing about Timmy, eh? Wrong.”
Emily smiled. Timmy eyed Mr. Graves suspiciously, then his mum.
“My colleague, Mr. Graves. Be polite.”
Timmy clambered into the back seat, silent.
“Where to?” Mr. Graves asked.
“Somewhere close. No child seat—we’ll get fined,” Emily interjected.
“Soft play centre, then. Too chilly for the park. Timmy, yeah?”
Timmy stared out the window.
At school, whispers followed Emily. When Mr. Graves entered the staff room, colleagues scattered like Year 6s at the bell.
He took his time. Stayed for dinner twice. On the third visit, he didn’t leave. Emily barely slept, checking the clock, terrified Timmy would stumble upon them.
“He’s a bright lad. He’ll adjust,” Mr. Graves murmured at dawn.
Emily disentangled herself. Timmy, notoriously hard to wake on weekdays, chose that morning to rise early. He froze in the kitchen doorway—Mum frying pancakes, Mr. Graves at the table.
“Washed up? Breakfast,” Emily said brightly.
She served Mr. Graves first. Timmy noticed.
“Pancake race?” Mr. Graves challenged.
“Why?” Timmy deadpanned.
“Just fun. Boys love a challenge. Go!” He shoveled in a forkful.
Timmy chewed slowly.
Emily’s chest ached—proud he wasn’t easily swayed, stung he so clearly disliked Mr. Graves.
“Mum says your birthday’s coming. What d’you want? Transformer? RC car?”
“A puppy.”
“Electronic one?”
“Real,” Timmy said witheringly.
“We’ve talked about this,” Emily cut in. “Puppies need walks, training, someone home. When you’re older—”
“Then I don’t want anything.”
A cold snap hit in March. They drove to Trafford Centre—Emily scouting sale-rail shoes for Timmy’s ever-growing feet, Mr. Graves playing toy expert. Timmy barely glanced at robots until a premium Transformer caught his eye. Then Mum dragged him to try coats.
Leaving, snow flurries swirled. A filthy fluffball darted at their feet.
“Bloody hell—nearly stepped on it!” Mr. Graves swore.
Timmy grabbed the shivering pup.
“Sod off.” Mr. Graves kicked it. The puppy yelped.
Timmy clutched it, glaring. “You’re… a prat!”
“Timothy Smith!”
The boy held firm.
“He’s filthy, probably ill,” Emily pleaded.
Mr. Graves reached for it. Timmy bolted—straight into a reversing car.
A minor bump. Timmy sat bawling on tarmac, puppy safe in his arms.
“Watch your kid, love!” the driver snapped.
“No harm done,” Mr. Graves dismissed.
Timmy refused to let go.
“Stubborn, like your mum. Needs a proper hiding,” Mr. Graves muttered.
“Enough.” Emily’s voice cracked. At home, she washed the pup while Timmy beamed.
Vet visits confirmed: healthy. “You saved him. He’ll love you forever,” the vet said.
That evening, Mr. Graves arrived with roses.
“Em, I overreacted—”
“Leave.”
“Who else’ll want you with that brat?”
She slammed the door. Inside, Timmy giggled as the pup licked his hands.
“He came back?” Timmy asked.
“Gone for good.”
“Good. We’ve got Smiley.”
“Who?”
“His name. Short for Smiley-face. Look—he’s smiling!”
Emily watched Timmy’s joy and wondered when her turn would come. Not with Mr. Graves, clearly. But if Timmy was happy… maybe that was enough.
