**A Daughter for Herself**
Faith stepped into the flat and listened. She quickly shrugged off her coat and kicked off her heels before heading straight to her mother’s room.
Mum lay on top of the quilt, eyes closed, hands folded over her chest.
“Mum!” Faith gasped in alarm.
“What are you shouting for?” Mum slowly opened her eyes.
“You scared me. Lying there like…” Faith bit her tongue.
“Just waiting for me to die, aren’t you? Don’t worry, it won’t be long now,” Mum muttered sourly. “Why are you so late?”
“Mum, must you say things like that? I really was frightened. I stopped by the shop after work. Only fifteen minutes extra,” Faith defended herself. “Do you need anything? I’ll go make dinner.”
Mum had been ill for as long as Faith could remember—clinic visits as regular as clockwork. She’d return grumbling about useless doctors, wasting their salaries when they couldn’t diagnose or treat anything properly.
She’d had Faith late, at forty. “For myself,” as people said. There was no father. Mum shut down any questions about him. When Faith got older, she combed through both family photo albums. Not a single picture of a man.
“Burned them all. Why keep reminders of a traitor?” Mum snapped once. “Don’t trust men, love. Keep your distance.”
Trips with schoolmates lasting more than a day were forbidden.
“We’ve no money for that. Travel when you’re grown. What if I take ill and you’re not here? Then it’ll just be you, alone in the world,” Mum would say.
At the slightest upset, Mum clutched her chest. Faith, terrified by these fits—and the constant talk of death—would scramble for medication. She’d memorised which pills were for the heart, which for nerves. By adolescence, she dreamed of being a doctor—of curing Mum.
But their town had no medical school, and studying elsewhere was unthinkable. Who’d care for Mum? They lived modestly, scraping by on Mum’s pension after she retired. So after school, Faith started working.
A small solicitor’s office stood nearby. No vacancies advertised, but Faith dropped in on a whim. As luck would have it, they needed help.
The office had few staff. A pregnant receptionist managed appointments, calls, clients—and by day’s end, mopped floors and took out bins. She’d been begging the boss to hire a cleaner, but the woman dragged her feet. “Wait till maternity leave, we’ll replace her then.” Faith arrived just in time. Modest, well-mannered, trustworthy—she was hired.
Rainy days meant mopping mid-shift too. Otherwise, Faith ran small errands: filing, photocopying, ushering clients in. The receptionist taught her to use a computer. When maternity leave came, Faith took over entirely. Now she earned double—a joy beyond words.
Back in school, Faith had fancied a boy from the next street. They walked home together; he’d even asked her to the cinema. That’s when Mum first warned her—men only wanted one thing. Take advantage, get what they wanted, then vanish. And she’d be left raising a child alone, like Mum had.
“Did Dad deceive you too? Is that why you burned his pictures?” Faith guessed.
Mum flinched but recovered quickly.
“No, your father was different. We loved each other, married, had you. But he left me all the same—found someone younger, prettier. They’re all cheats. Trust none of them.”
That she’d had Faith without a husband, “for herself,” Mum omitted.
After school, the boy went to university. They rarely met, and once, Faith saw him with a girlfriend. He looked away, pretending not to know her. “All cheats,” Mum’s words echoed.
Young clients at the office tried wooing pretty Faith. She refused them all. And Mum was always ill, demanding attention—blood pressure, back pain, aching joints. Lately, more heart scares. Faith rushed home after work.
If a suitor appeared, Mum would ring, claiming another attack. Faith would bolt home, call an ambulance. Nothing serious—a jab, and the doctor left. Faith, relieved, returned to work. The suitor, gone.
Youth slipped by. Mum “lingered,” “ill” more often, bedridden, housebound. Men stopped noticing Faith. Dressed plainly, hair pinned back, no makeup—she faded beside polished colleagues and clients.
Once, after another ambulance call, the doctor checked Mum’s blood pressure, listened to her chest, then pulled Faith aside.
“Not my place, but your mother’s manipulating you. Nothing’s wrong. Aches are normal at her age, her blood pressure’s excellent. You must stand firm—live your own life.”
“How dare you!” Faith bristled.
“I’ve been here before. Her health’s age-appropriate. She can care for herself—certainly doesn’t need bed rest. Don’t abandon her, but don’t live for her. Marry, have children before it’s late. Hire a carer.”
Faith stewed, but the words stuck. She’d been nowhere, seen nothing—one schoolboy kiss her only experience. Past thirty now. Could Mum really be faking to keep her close? Impossible!
One icy day, Faith slipped near home. Strong hands caught her. A young man.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Let me walk you.” He took her bag, heading for her door.
“How d’you know where I live?”
“I know a lot about you. My aunt speaks highly of you.”
“Your aunt?”
“Margaret Hayes, fifth floor.”
“Oh! You’re visiting her? I’ve not seen you before.”
“Yes, staying with her. My parents died years ago—came to tend their graves, settle affairs.”
“Where from?”
“Canada. Born here, but after uni and losing Mum and Dad, I moved to family there.”
They lingered outside Faith’s flat, talking.
“Aunt said you care for your sick mother, but—fancy a coffee? Just a chat.”
She liked him.
“Maybe,” she demurred, blushing—suddenly beautiful. Turning, she fumbled her key, hiding embarrassment.
“I’m Michael. You’re Faith. Lovely name. So, settled?” He returned her bag.
She nodded, vanished inside. Heart racing, cheeks burning.
“Who were you talking to?” Mum called.
Faith startled, hurried to the kitchen, then Mum’s room. Mum squinted up at her.
“Margaret’s nephew, from Canada. Just met on the stairs.”
“Eyes all lit up! Lying! Asked you out? Don’t you dare—”
“Didn’t! I’ll make dinner.” Faith fled.
All evening, she thought of Michael—decided she wouldn’t go. Mum was right. He’d return to Canada; she’d be alone.
Mum sulked, refused supper—then clutched her chest.
“Call an ambulance—I’m poorly,” she whispered, eyes rolling.
This time, Faith didn’t run for the phone. Calmly, she fetched pills and water.
“Enough, Mum. Take these. You’ll be fine.”
Next evening, Faith met Michael at a café. He spoke of Canada, Niagara Falls… Soon, he waited for her after work daily. One night, he confessed his love, asked her to come to Canada.
“I like you too. But I can’t leave Mum. She’s not as ill as she pretends, but I can’t abandon her.”
“No problem. Bring her,” Michael offered.
“No.” Faith shook her head. “Even if she survived the flight, the heat wouldn’t suit her. And she’d refuse.”
“Let me talk to her. Canada’s healthcare—”
“Won’t cure old age. Go without me.”
“Faith, there’s time. Think. We’ll find a way. I’d stay, but my job, my home—Talk to her. Maybe she’ll relent. I’ll hire the best carer—friends, money—”
“No.”
As Michael’s departure neared, Faith agonised. Mum’s warnings clashed with fear of losing him—her one chance at love. Oddly, Margaret left town—her best friend had fallen ill.
Michael met Faith as usual.
“Invite me up,” she said.
She’d decided: better now with Michael than never. He spoke of love, begged her to come. She stayed. When he slept, she dressed, slipped home. Next morning, she left for work without seeing Mum—unable to face lies or dying threats. Michael flew to Canada alone.
“What, fancied a fling? Gave in? What if you’re pregnant? He’s gone—left you. Know how hard it is raising a child alone?” Mum raged later.
“How d’you know he left?” Faith eyed her suspiciously.
Mum blinked rapidly.
“Who told you? You never leave the flat—barely rise from bed.She held her newborn daughter close, gazing at the horizon from the plane window, finally free to choose her own path—no guilt, no regrets, just the quiet certainty that she would never let love become a cage.
