**A Daughter for Herself**
I stepped into the flat and paused, listening. After shrugging off my coat and kicking off my shoes, I hurried straight to Mum’s room.
She lay on top of the duvet, eyes closed, hands folded over her chest.
“Mum!” I gasped, my voice sharp with alarm.
“What’s all the shouting for?” Her eyes fluttered open slowly.
“You scared me. Lying there like—” I bit back the words.
“Just waiting for me to die, aren’t you? Don’t worry, it won’t be long now,” she muttered irritably. “Why are you so late?”
“Mum, don’t say things like that. I really was frightened. I stopped at the shop after work, just fifteen minutes. Do you need anything?” I forced a calm tone. “I’ll go make dinner.”
Mum had always been ill—as far back as I could remember. She visited the GP surgery like it was a second job, always complaining the doctors were useless, that they took their salaries for nothing. Couldn’t diagnose, couldn’t treat.
She’d had me late, at forty. “For herself,” as they say. There’d never been a father. Any questions about him were swiftly shut down. When I was older, I scoured our two photo albums—not a single picture of a man.
“Burned them all. Why keep photos of a betrayer?” she’d say. “Don’t trust men, love. Keep your distance.”
School trips longer than a day were out of the question.
“We’ve no money for that nonsense. You’ll travel when you’re grown. What if I take ill and you’re not here? I’ll die, and you’ll be alone in this world.”
At the slightest upset, Mum clutched her chest. I’d panic every time, racing for her pills—heart tablets in one hand, nerve medicine in the other. I knew the drill by heart. That’s why I’d dreamed of being a doctor, to make her better.
But there was no medical school in our town. Studying elsewhere? Unthinkable. Who’d look after her? We’d always scraped by, and after Mum retired, it was even harder. So after school, I started working.
A small solicitor’s office stood near our flat. No “Help Wanted” sign, but I stepped in on a whim. Turned out, my timing was perfect.
The office was tiny—just a handful of staff. A pregnant receptionist handled appointments, calls, and odd jobs. By day’s end, she mopped floors and took out the bins, doubling as the cleaner. She’d been begging the boss to hire help. Then I showed up—quiet, polite, trustworthy. They took me on.
Rainy days meant mopping trails of mud. Otherwise, I filed papers, ushered clients, made copies. The receptionist taught me to use the computer. When she left on maternity, they didn’t replace her. I’d learned fast. Now, with double the pay, I was over the moon.
In school, I’d fancied a boy from the next street. We walked home together; he’d even asked me to the cinema twice. That’s when Mum warned me: men only wanted one thing. They’d take advantage, then vanish. And I’d be left raising a child alone, just like her.
“Did Dad trick you too? Is that why you burned his pictures?” I’d guessed.
Mum stiffened, then shrugged it off.
“No. With your father, it was different. We loved each other, married, had you. But he still left me—found someone younger, prettier. Men always stray. Don’t trust a single one.”
That she’d had me “for herself” without a husband went unmentioned.
After school, the boy went off to uni. We barely crossed paths. Then I saw him with a girlfriend. He looked away, pretending not to know me. *Just like Mum said—all betrayers.*
Young clients at the office tried their luck with me. I turned them down. Mum was always ill, always needing me—her blood pressure, her back, her joints. Lately, her heart. After work, I rushed straight home.
If a suitor so much as lingered, Mum would call: *Come quick, my heart!* As if she sensed it. I’d dash back, call an ambulance. Never serious—just an injection, then the medics left. But by then, the man would be gone.
Years slipped by. Mum “grew sicker,” barely left her bed, never went out. Men stopped noticing me. I wore dull clothes, pinned my hair back, wore no makeup. Beside the polished colleagues and clients, I was invisible.
One day, after yet another ambulance call, the doctor pulled me aside.
“Not my place, but your mother’s manipulating you. There’s nothing wrong with her. Joint pain’s common at her age; her blood pressure’s fine. You need to stand firm—live your own life.”
“How dare you!” I snapped.
“I’ve been here before. Her health’s normal for her age. She could care for herself perfectly well. You shouldn’t abandon her, but you don’t owe her your entire life. It’s past time you married, had children. Hire a carer.”
I was furious—but her words stuck. I’d never been anywhere, never done anything. Just one fleeting kiss with that schoolboy. And I was well past thirty. Could Mum really be faking it? No—impossible.
One icy afternoon, I nearly slipped outside our building. Strong hands caught me. I turned—a man, smiling.
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
“Let me walk you.” He took my shopping bag, steering me toward the door.
“How d’you know where I live?”
“I’ve heard a lot about you. My aunt sings your praises.”
“Who’s your aunt?”
“Mrs. Wilkins—fifth floor.”
“Oh, right. You’re visiting her?”
“Yes. My parents died years ago. I’m back to tidy their graves, sort some affairs.”
“Where’d you come from?”
“Australia. Born here, but after uni—and losing Mum and Dad—I moved to family there.”
We lingered at my door, chatting.
“Auntie said you care for your mum. But—fancy a coffee? Just a chat.”
I liked him.
“Maybe,” I said, blushing—and in that moment, I felt pretty. I fumbled with my keys, hiding my face.
“I’m Michael. You’re Vera. Lovely name. So—tomorrow?” He handed back my bag.
I nodded and slipped inside. My heart raced, cheeks burning.
“Who was that?” Mum called.
I froze. Changed, unpacked the shopping, then faced her. She squinted up at me.
“Mrs. Wilkins’s nephew. From Australia. Just greeted him on the stairs.”
“Liar. Your eyes are lit up. He asked you out, didn’t he? Don’t you dare—”
“He didn’t! I’ll make dinner.” I fled.
That night, I resolved not to see him. Mum was right—he’d return to Australia, leaving me alone.
She sulked all evening, refused dinner. Then—*the clutching.*
“Call an ambulance—I’m dying,” she wheezed.
This time, I didn’t run. I fetched her pills.
“Enough, Mum. Take these. You’ll be fine.”
The next day, I met Michael at a café. He spoke of Australia, the Outback… Soon, he met me after work daily. One evening, he confessed he loved me, begged me to come with him.
“I love you too. But I can’t leave Mum. She’s not as ill as she acts, but I can’t abandon her.”
“Then bring her!”
“No.” I shook my head. “The flight would kill her. The heat, the change—she’d never agree.”
“Let me talk to her. Australia’s healthcare is brilliant—”
“But ageing isn’t curable. Go without me.”
“Vera, think. We’ll find a way. I’d stay, but my job, my life’s there. Talk to her—maybe she’ll relent. I’ll hire the best carer, I’ve got contacts, money—”
I shook my head.
As Michael’s departure loomed, I agonised. Mum’s warnings rang in my ears—but losing him felt worse. This might be my only chance. Coincidentally, Mrs. Wilkins left town—her best friend had fallen ill.
The night before he flew, I went to his flat. I’d decided: better this once with him than never. He spoke of love, begged me to come. I stayed. At dawn, I dressed and crept home. I left for work without seeing Mum—I couldn’t lie, couldn’t bear her “dying” threats. Michael flew back alone.
“So, you gave in? What if you’re pregnant? He’s left you—just like that. Know how hard it isNow, with my daughter in my arms and Michael by my side, I finally stepped onto the plane, leaving behind the shadows of the past for a future where I could breathe—and love—without chains.
