**A Daughter for Herself**
Vera stepped into the flat and listened. Quickly slipping off her coat and shoes, she headed straight to her mum’s room.
Mum was lying on top of the duvet, eyes closed, hands folded over her chest.
“Mum!” Vera gasped in fright.
“What’s all the shouting?” Mum slowly opened her eyes.
“You scared me. Lying there like—” Vera stopped herself.
“Just waiting for me to die, aren’t you? Won’t be long now,” Mum muttered disapprovingly. “Why are you so late?”
“Mum, why say things like that? You really frightened me. I stopped at the shop after work, only fifteen minutes. Did you need anything? I’ll go make dinner.”
Mum had always been ill, for as long as Vera could remember. She visited the GP like it was her job, always complaining that the doctors were useless, just taking their salaries for nothing—couldn’t diagnose, couldn’t treat.
She’d had Vera late, at forty. “For herself,” as they say. No father in the picture. Mum shut down any talk of him. When Vera got older, she flipped through the two photo albums, searching—not a single man in any of them.
“Burned them all. Why keep pictures of a traitor?” Mum had answered. “Don’t trust men, love. Keep your distance.”
School trips longer than a day? Mum never let her go.
“We’ve no money as it is. You’ll travel when you’re grown. And what if I take poorly and you’re not here? I’ll die, and you’ll be alone in the world.”
At the slightest thing, Mum clutched her chest. Vera would panic every time—her episodes, her talk of death—she’d rush for the pills. Knew exactly which were for the heart, which were for nerves. Dreamed of being a doctor, curing her.
But their town had no medical school. Studying elsewhere? Out of the question. Who’d look after Mum? Money was tight—after Mum’s retirement, it was a struggle just to get by. Vera started working after school.
Nearby was a small solicitor’s office. No sign outside. Vera walked in on a whim—any work going? Turned out, she’d come at just the right time.
Only a handful of staff worked there. The pregnant receptionist handled appointments, calls, tidying up, even mopping. She’d begged the boss to hire a cleaner, but why bother when she’d soon be on maternity leave? Vera—polite, dependable—was perfect.
Mopping wasn’t just end-of-day; rain meant muddy floors. Otherwise, Vera helped with small tasks—sorting files, making copies. The receptionist even taught her how to use the computer. When she left, they didn’t replace her. Efficient Vera was already managing fine. Now with double the pay, she was over the moon.
Back in school, Vera had liked a boy from the next block. They walked home together; he’d asked her to the cinema a couple of times. That’s when Mum warned her—boys only wanted one thing. They’d take advantage, get what they wanted, then vanish. Then she’d be raising a child alone, just like Mum had.
“Did Dad trick you too? Is that why you burned his pictures?” Vera guessed.
Mum hesitated, then recovered. “No. Your father and I—it was different. We married, had you. But he still left, found someone younger, prettier. All men stray. Don’t trust any of them.”
She never mentioned she’d had Vera “for herself.”
After school, the boy went to uni. They rarely crossed paths, until one day she saw him with a girl. He looked away, pretended not to know her. “All traitors,” Vera thought.
At work, clients tried chatting her up. She always said no. Mum was always ill, needed attention—blood pressure, back pain, stiff joints. Lately, her heart played up more. Vera rushed home after work.
If a suitor appeared, Mum would call. “Come quick, my heart—” Almost as if she knew. Vera would bolt home, call an ambulance. Nothing serious—the doctor would give an injection, leave. Vera returned to work, but the suitor vanished.
Years slipped by. Mum kept “ailing,” barely left bed, stopped going out. Men stopped noticing Vera—plain clothes, hair pinned back, no makeup. Against the polished clients and colleagues, she faded into the background.
One day, the paramedic took Vera aside.
“Not my place, but your mum’s manipulating you. She’s fine. Aches and pains? Normal for her age. Her blood pressure’s brilliant. You need to stand firm, live your own life.”
“How dare you?” Vera fumed.
But the words stuck. Had Mum really faked illness to keep her close?
Then came the icy pavement. Vera nearly slipped—strong hands caught her. A man.
“Thanks.”
“Let me walk you.” He took her bag, headed to her door.
“How’d you know where I live?”
“Heard loads about you. My aunt’s a big fan.”
“Your aunt?”
“Margaret from fifth floor.”
They chatted outside her flat.
“Fancy a coffee sometime? Just a chat.”
Vera liked him.
“Maybe,” she mumbled, flushing—and suddenly looking lovely.
Inside, Mum called, “Who were you talking to?”
“Margaret’s nephew. Just said hello.”
Mum squinted. “Eyes all lit up. Don’t lie. Asked you out, didn’t he? Watch yourself.”
That night, Mum “took ill” again. But this time, Vera didn’t panic. She handed her the pills. “That’s enough, Mum. Take these.”
Next day, she met Michael for coffee. He spoke of Israel, the Dead Sea… Soon, he waited for her after work.
“Come with me,” he said one evening.
“I can’t leave Mum.”
“Bring her.”
“No. She’d never adjust.”
Before he left, Vera spent the night with him. In the morning, she slipped out. Mum’s accusations flew—had she slept with him? What if she got pregnant?
One day, Mum collapsed—genuinely this time. The hospital said she needed surgery. Might not survive.
After discharge, Vera cared for her—now with a secret.
“You’re pregnant! Why didn’t you get rid of it?”
“I want this baby. I’ve lived for you. Who’ll care for me when I’m old?”
Mum went quiet.
One morning, Vera found her dead. No guilt—just quiet relief.
Then a knock. Michael, returned.
“Your aunt called. I came straightaway. Is the baby mine?”
“Yes.”
“Then come with me.”
Vera sold the flat, kept nothing. No memories worth keeping.
Sometimes, love isn’t enough—some mothers, meaning well, cage their children. But Vera got lucky. Michael saved her from Mum’s lonely fate.
