The Puppy
Tabitha lived with her mum, just the two of them. She had a father, of course—technically—but he wasn’t part of their lives. Tabby hadn’t asked about him yet. At school, kids might brag about their parents, but in nursery, toys mattered more than missing dads.
Hope had decided it was better Tabby didn’t know the truth—that she’d fallen head over heels for the man who would become her father, only for him to announce he was married when she told him about the pregnancy. His wife’s father was his boss. If he left, he’d be left penniless, and Hope didn’t want a man like that. He advised her to “sort it out” before it was too late—no child support, no promises. If she insisted on keeping it, well… she’d regret it.
She disappeared from his life without argument and raised Tabby alone. Tabby turned out lovely, and that was enough for her.
Hope taught Year Two, and five-year-old Tabby went to nursery. They didn’t need anyone else.
After the New Year, a new P.E. teacher arrived—tall, fit, always grinning. All the single female staff eyed him, joked with him, flirted. Hope kept her distance. Maybe that’s why he noticed her.
One afternoon as she left the school gates, a Range Rover pulled up beside her. The P.E. teacher stepped out, swinging the passenger door open.
“Hop in,” he smiled.
“Oh, it’s not far. I can walk,” Hope said awkwardly.
“Still quicker by car, even if it’s just round the corner,” he countered.
She hesitated but slid into the seat. He shut the door, started the engine. “Address?”
“I don’t know. Just the nursery number,” she mumbled.
He frowned. “Nursery?”
“My daughter’s nursery,” Hope clarified.
“You’ve got a daughter? How old?” He’d switched to “you” already.
“Tabby. Five.” She grabbed the door handle. “Actually, I’ll walk.”
“Wait. Let’s go.” The engine rumbled.
She shut the door again. Fine—let him drive her to fetch Tabby. Nothing would come of it anyway. Why would a man want a woman with baggage when plenty were free and childless?
“If you’re not in a rush…” She sighed.
“No rush. No wife, no kids waiting.” He volunteered the information before she could ask.
“Why’s that? Terrible temper? Can’t keep a woman?” Hope teased.
“Feisty. Didn’t expect that. Looks can deceive, Ms. Whitmore.”
“Regretting offering the lift? Turn left here,” she said abruptly.
The car stopped outside the nursery.
“I’ll wait,” he said as she climbed out.
She lingered. “Don’t. We live close. I don’t want her asking questions. You understand, Mr. Cavendish?” Her tone was firm, as if explaining to a slow pupil. “Don’t wait.” She shut the door and walked off.
When she emerged ten minutes later with Tabby, the Range Rover was gone. Part of her was relieved. Another part—smaller, quieter—ached. Of course. A child was too much trouble. Fine. “We don’t need him,” she thought.
But the next day, he was there again.
“Thought I’d run off, did you? Not a chance. Nursery?” he asked casually.
Hope nodded, smiling. When she led Tabby to the car, the girl studied Mr. Cavendish with the same sharp look Hope had given him the day before, then glanced up at her mum.
“This is Mr. Cavendish. He works at my school. Go on, hop in,” Hope said too brightly.
Tabby didn’t cheer or scramble inside. She climbed into the back seat silently and stared out the window.
“Where to?” Mr. Cavendish—Oliver—turned to her.
“Not far. No car seat—could get fined,” Hope answered for her.
“Soft play, then. Too chilly for the park. Sound good, Tabby?”
Tabby kept staring out the window, as if the passing bricks held secrets. Oliver chuckled and drove off.
At school, whispers trailed Hope. When Oliver entered the staff room, colleagues scattered with knowing smirks.
He didn’t rush things. Took his time. Twice, he left after supper. The third time, he stayed till morning. Hope slept fitfully, checking the clock, terrified Tabby would barge in and find them.
“Relax. She’s smart. She’ll get used to it,” Oliver murmured at dawn, pulling her close.
Hope wriggled free. On weekdays, Tabby slept like a log. Today, of course, she woke early.
“Morning,” Tabby said, blinking at Oliver in the kitchen as Hope flipped pancakes.
“Washed up? Sit down, then.” Hope smiled too wide, sliding pancakes onto plates—Oliver’s first, Tabby’s second. The girl noticed.
“Who can eat fastest?” Oliver grinned.
“Why?” Tabby frowned.
“Just fun. Real men rise to a challenge. Ready?” He shoveled in a bite, gulped tea noisily.
Tabby chewed slowly, indifferent to winning. Hope was proud—and dismayed. She didn’t like him.
“Your mum said your birthday’s coming. What d’you want? Transformer? RC car?”
“A puppy,” Tabby said.
“Robotic one? Bit babyish—”
“A real one.” She gave him a withering look.
“We’ve talked about this. Puppies need walks, training. Who’ll look after it when we’re out?” Hope said.
“Then I don’t want anything.”
“Eat up. We’ll hit the shops, find something,” Oliver said.
Then March turned cruel again. Ice wind, needle-sharp snow. At the mall, Hope hunted for cheap shoes—Tabby outgrew everything—while Oliver showed off toys. Tabby barely glanced at robots, lit up once at a Transformer, then was dragged off to try coats.
Leaving, snow stung their faces. A filthy fluffball darted at Oliver’s feet.
“Bloody hell!” he cursed. “Nearly trod on it.”
Tabby scooped up the shivering pup before he could kick it away.
“You—idiot!” she screamed.
“Tabby! Apologise!” Hope snapped.
The pup trembled in her arms.
“He’s filthy, probably sick. Put him down!”
Tabby’s grip tightened. “He’ll freeze. I’ll clean up after him.”
“We’ll buy a proper one next weekend,” Oliver said, reaching.
Tabby bolted—straight into a reversing car.
Hope screamed. The bumper clipped her. Tabby sat on the tarmac, still clutching the pup, tears streaking her cheeks.
“You alright? Let him go!” Hope wiped her face.
“Not my fault! Blind spot!” the driver yelled.
“No claims here. Move along,” Oliver dismissed him.
At home, they bathed the pup. Under the grime: a fluffy charmer. The vet found nothing wrong.
“You saved him. He’ll never forget that,” the vet said, shaking Tabby’s hand.
“But what about tomorrow?” Hope fretted.
“We’ll shut him in the loo.”
“And let him howl the street down?”
“He’s clever. It’ll be fine.”
That evening, Oliver arrived with roses.
“Sorry. I overreacted.”
“No, Oliver. This won’t work. Leave.”
“Suit yourself. Who else’ll take you with that brat?”
She shoved him out, slammed the door.
Tabby giggled as the pup licked her fingers.
“Mum, look! He’s smiling!”
“You named him?”
“Smiley. Short for Smiley. See?”
Hope watched her, wistful. When would happiness find her? Not with Oliver—he’d never love another man’s child. But if Tabby was happy… maybe that was enough.
The pup yawned, curled up, and slept.
