Vera stepped into the flat and paused to listen. She quickly shed her raincoat and shoes before heading straight to her mother’s room.
There she lay atop the duvet, eyes closed, hands folded over her chest.
“Mum!” Vera gasped, her voice catching.
“What’s all the shouting for?” Her mother’s eyes opened slowly.
“You frightened me! Lying there like—” Vera bit back the rest.
“All you do is wait for me to die. Don’t worry—it won’t be long now,” the woman grumbled. “Why are you so late?”
“Mum, why must you say such things? I was really scared. I stopped at the shop after work—just fifteen minutes!” Vera defended herself. “Do you need anything? I’ll go make dinner.”
Her mother had always been poorly, as far back as Vera could remember. Trips to the GP were as routine as clockwork. She’d return complaining—the doctors were useless, a waste of taxpayer money. Couldn’t diagnose, couldn’t treat.
She’d had Vera late, at forty. “For myself,” as they say. There was no father. Any mention of him was swiftly cut off. When Vera was older, she’d combed through their two photo albums, but not a single picture of a man remained.
“I burned them all. Why keep photos of a traitor?” her mother once said. “Don’t trust men, love. Keep your distance.”
Vera was never allowed on school trips longer than a day.
“We haven’t the money anyway. You’ll travel when you’re older. And what if I fall ill while you’re gone? I might die—then where would you be?”
At the slightest thing, her mother clutched her chest. Each time, Vera panicked—both at the “attacks” and the talk of death—rushing for the pills. She knew exactly which bottle was for the heart, which for the nerves. It was why she’d dreamed of becoming a doctor.
But there was no medical school in their town. Studying elsewhere was unthinkable—who’d look after Mum? Money was tight even before her mother’s pension. So after school, Vera found work.
A small solicitor’s office stood near their flat. No job ads, but Vera wandered in on a whim. As luck would have it, they needed someone.
The staff was sparse—a pregnant receptionist managed appointments, calls, odd jobs. By day’s end, she also cleaned, hauling mops and buckets. She’d long pleaded for proper help, but the boss dragged her feet—why hire another when maternity leave would solve it? Vera, quiet and well-mannered, fit perfectly.
Mopping wasn’t just evenings—rainy days meant muddy footprints all day. Otherwise, Vera helped file, usher clients, make copies. The receptionist even taught her the computer.
When maternity leave came, they didn’t replace her. Vera had learned fast. Now she earned double, pinching herself in disbelief.
At school, she’d fancied a boy from the next estate. They walked home together; once, he invited her to the cinema. That’s when her mother warned—”Men only want one thing. They’ll take it, then vanish. You’d be left alone, just like me.”
“Did Dad trick you too? Is that why you burned his pictures?” Vera guessed.
Her mother flustered, then stiffened.
“No. Your father was different. We married for love, then had you. But he still left—found someone younger. All men betray. Believe none of them.”
That she’d had Vera “for herself” went unsaid.
The boy left for university. They rarely met after. Then once, she saw him with a girl. He looked away. “Traitors, all,” her mother’s voice echoed.
Handsome clients sometimes flirted, but Vera refused them all. Mum was always ill, always needy. Blood pressure, back pain, joints. Lately—her heart. Vera rushed home each night.
The moment a suitor appeared, Mum would ring—”Come home, my heart!”—as if sensing it. Vera would dash back, call an ambulance. The doctor gave a jab and left; the suitor never waited.
Youth slipped by. Mum “lingered,” “ailing” more, bedbound, housebound. Men stopped noticing Vera—plain clothes, hair pinned back, no makeup. Among polished colleagues and clients, she faded into the background.
One “emergency,” the doctor pulled Vera aside.
“None of my business, but your mother’s manipulating you. She’s fine—aches and high blood pressure are normal at her age. You need to stand firm. Live your own life.”
“How dare you!” Vera snapped.
But the words lingered. She’d never been anywhere, done anything. Just one kiss, years ago. Now past thirty—was Mum truly feigning illness to keep her? Impossible!
One icy evening, Vera nearly slipped. Strong hands caught her. A man stood there.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
“Let me walk you.” He took her bag.
“How d’you know where I live?”
“I know a lot about you. My aunt—Anna from flat five—speaks highly of you.”
He’d flown in from Israel—born here, but left after his parents died. They talked on the landing.
“Aunt said you care for your mum. Fancy a coffee? Just a chat.”
She liked him.
“Maybe,” Vera said, flushing prettily.
Inside, her heart raced.
“Who were you talking to?” Mum called.
Vera froze, then busied herself with dinner.
“Anna’s nephew—just said hello.”
Mum’s eyes narrowed. “Liar. He asked you out?”
“No! I’m making dinner.” Vera fled.
That night, Mum “took ill” again. Vera didn’t call the ambulance—just handed pills. “Enough, Mum. Take these.”
Next evening, Vera met Michael at a café. He spoke of Israel, the Dead Sea… Soon, he waited for her nightly. Once, he confessed his feelings—”Come with me.”
“I can’t. Mum might not be as ill as she claims, but I can’t leave her.”
“Bring her.”
Vera shook her head. “The heat would kill her. She’d never go.”
“Let me talk to her. Israel’s medicine is top-notch—”
“Age isn’t curable. Go without me.”
But Michael pleaded—”Think it over. I’ll hire the best carer—”
Vera refused.
His departure loomed. Vera agonised—Mum’s warnings versus losing him. Probably her last chance at love. Coincidentally, Anna left town—a friend had fallen ill.
One night, Vera stayed with Michael. At dawn, she slipped home, avoiding Mum’s room. Michael flew back alone.
“So you gave in? What if you’re pregnant? He’s gone—just like I said!” Mum raged.
“How d’you know he left?” Vera eyed her sharply.
Mum blinked rapidly.
“You never leave this flat! You’ve lied all these years—just to keep me?” Vera’s voice broke. “No husband, no children—no life of my own!”
Mum paled suddenly, gasping. Vera called an ambulance, begging forgiveness all the way.
At the hospital—bypass surgery. “Risky at her age,” the doctor said.
“How long without it?”
“A year—if she stays calm.”
Vera cared for her doubly afterwards, enduring only spite.
“Won’t be long now…”
She bore it silently. Until she realised—she was pregnant.
“You kept it? Why no abortion?” Mum hissed.
“I want this child. I’ve spent my life with you—who’ll care for me when I’m old? Michael asked me to marry him. I refused—for you. At least let me have this.”
For once, Mum was quiet.
Vera lay later, imagining life with her daughter. Just the two… Then—what about Mum? She checked—Mum slept.
By morning, she was gone. Vera felt no guilt—only calm. Now she could live.
The funeral passed in a blur. Nights were worse—every creak sounded like Mum shifting in her room.
Then—a knock. No one visited.
“Who is it?”
“Vera—it’s Michael.”
Her knees buckled. There he stood.
“Aunt rang. Said your mum passed… That you’re pregnant. I came straight back. It’s mine?”
“Yes.”
“Come with me now. Nothing holds you here.”
“Truly?”
“I love you.”
“I’ll go.”
He left to arrange papers. Vera had the baby. Months later, she signed the flat over to herself. Michael returned for them both.
The walls felt like a cage. Vera left without a backward glance—no keepsakes. What memories? She’d sell the flat; Anna would mind it.
Not all mother-daughter bonds are warm. Hers meant well—but made Vera miserable. Lucky she met Michael—or she’d have mirrored her mother’s lonely life.
