**A Daughter for Herself**
Vera stepped into the flat and listened for a moment. She quickly shrugged off her coat and shoes, then made straight for her mother’s room.
The woman lay on the bed atop the covers, eyes closed, hands folded on her chest.
“Mum!” Vera cried out in alarm.
“What are you shouting for?” Her mother slowly opened her eyes.
“You scared me. Lying there like—” Vera cut herself short.
“Just waiting for me to die, aren’t you? Well, it won’t be long now,” her mother grumbled. “Why are you so late?”
“Mum, must you say things like that? I was genuinely frightened. I stopped by the shop after work—only fifteen minutes. Do you need anything? I’ll go make dinner.”
Her mother had been ill for as long as Vera could remember. She visited the doctor’s surgery as if it were her job, always coming home to complain that the GPs were useless, overpaid, and couldn’t diagnose a cold.
She’d had Vera late, at forty—”for herself,” as people said. There had been no father in the picture, and her mother shut down any questions about him. When Vera grew older, she combed through the family albums—there were only two—but found no trace of any man in them.
“I burned them all. Why keep photos of a traitor?” her mother had said. “Don’t trust men, love. Stay away from them.”
School trips longer than a day were forbidden.
“We’ve no money for gallivanting. When you’re grown, you’ll travel. And what if I fall ill while you’re gone? If I die, you’ll be all alone in this world,” her mother would say.
At the slightest complaint, her mother clutched her heart. Vera, terrified by these attacks and her mother’s constant talk of death, would rush for the medicine. She’d long memorised which pills were for the heart and which for nerves. That’s why she’d dreamed of becoming a doctor—to make her mother well.
But there was no medical school in their town, and leaving to study elsewhere was unthinkable. Who would look after Mum? They had always scraped by, and now, with her mother on pension, money was tighter than ever. So after school, Vera found work.
A small solicitor’s office stood near their block of flats. No vacancies were advertised, but Vera walked in on the off chance. As luck would have it, they needed help.
Only a handful of staff worked there. A pregnant receptionist managed appointments, calls, and odd jobs. By day’s end, she also had to clean—mopping floors, emptying bins. She’d begged the boss to hire a cleaner, but the woman dragged her feet. “Once she’s on maternity leave, we’ll replace her—why pay two?” Vera’s timing was perfect. Quiet and polite, she seemed trustworthy and was taken on.
Mopping was needed mid-shift if the weather turned wet and mucky. Otherwise, Vera had little to do, so she happily helped the receptionist—sorting files, ushering clients, making copies. The girl even taught her to use the computer. When maternity leave came, no replacement was hired. Vera, quick to learn, took on the role—and now earned double, which thrilled her.
Back in school, she’d fancied a boy from the next estate. They walked home together, and once he even took her to the cinema. That was when her mother warned her—”Lads only want one thing. They’ll take advantage, then vanish, leaving you to raise a child alone—just like me.”
“Did Dad trick you too? Is that why you burned his pictures?” Vera had asked.
Her mother faltered but quickly recovered.
“No, it wasn’t like that with your father. We loved each other. We married, then had you. But he still left—found someone younger. All men stray in the end. Trust none of them.”
She didn’t mention that Vera had been born out of wedlock.
After school, the boy went off to uni. They rarely crossed paths, and one day she saw him with a girl. He looked away, pretending not to know her. “Traitors, the lot,” Vera remembered her mother’s words.
Young clients at the office flirted, but she turned them all down. Her mother was always ill, demanding attention—her blood pressure, her back, her joints. Lately, her heart acted up most. After work, Vera rushed straight home.
If a suitor so much as lingered, her mother would ring, pleading for help—her heart again. Vera would sprint back, call an ambulance. Each time, the paramedics gave an injection and left, assuring her it was nothing serious. But by then, the man would be gone.
Youth slipped by. Yet her mother lived on, “ill” more often, scarcely leaving bed. Men stopped noticing Vera. She dressed plainly, pinned her hair back, wore no makeup. Among groomed, stylish colleagues and clients, she faded into the background.
Once, after yet another false alarm, the paramedic pulled her aside.
“Not my place, but your mother’s manipulating you. There’s nothing wrong with her. Aches and high blood pressure? Normal at her age. You need to stand firm—live your own life.”
“How dare you?” Vera snapped.
“I’ve been here before. Her health is fine. She could manage alone, certainly isn’t bedbound. Don’t abandon her, but don’t sacrifice yourself either. It’s past time you married, had children. Hire a carer.”
Vera fumed—but later pondered the words. Had she truly seen nothing, done nothing? She’d only kissed that boy from school. Now she was over thirty. Was her mother really feigning illness to keep her close? Impossible!
One icy evening, Vera nearly slipped outside their flats. A man caught her.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
“Let me walk you up.” He took her bag.
“How d’you know where I live?”
“I know a lot about you. My aunt speaks highly of you.”
“Who’s your aunt?”
“Margaret from the fifth floor.”
“Oh, her. You’re visiting?”
“Yes. Parents died years ago—I’m back to tend their graves and sort affairs.”
“Where from?”
“Israel. Born here, but after uni and losing Mum and Dad, I moved there to family.”
They lingered at her door, talking.
“Aunt said you care for your mum, but… fancy a coffee? Just a chat.”
She liked him. “Maybe,” she said, flushing—suddenly beautiful. She turned to unlock the door, hiding her face.
“I’m Michael. And you’re Vera. Lovely name. So, settled?” He handed back her groceries.
She nodded and slipped inside, heart pounding, cheeks burning.
“Who were you talking to?” her mother called.
Vera jumped, hurried to the kitchen, then entered her mother’s room. The woman squinted at her.
“Margaret’s nephew—from Israel. Just met on the stairs.”
“Liar. Where’s he taking you?”
“Nowhere. I’ll make dinner.” Vera fled.
All evening, she thought of Michael—yet resolved not to see him. Mum was right—he’d return to Israel, leaving her alone.
Her mother sulked, refusing supper. Then—”Call an ambulance, I’m poorly,” she gasped, eyes rolling.
This time, Vera didn’t panic. Remembering the paramedic, she fetched pills and water.
“Enough, Mum. Take these—you’ll be fine.”
Next day, she met Michael at a café. He spoke of Israel, the Dead Sea… Soon, he waited for her after work daily. One evening, he confessed his love and asked her to come with him.
“I like you too. But I can’t leave Mum.”
“No problem. Bring her.”
“No.” Vera shook her head. “The flight, the heat… She’d never agree.”
“Let me talk to her. Israel’s hospitals are top-notch—”
“Age isn’t curable. Go without me.”
“Think it over. I’d stay, but my life’s there. Talk to her—maybe she’ll relent. I’ll hire the best carer.”
Vera refused.
As Michael’s departure neared, she agonised. She recalled her mother’s warnings—yet couldn’t bear to lose him. Likely, no one else would ever want her. Oddly, Margaret left town—her best friend had fallen ill.
Michael waited for her as usual.
“Invite me up,” she said.
She’d decided—better this once with him than never at all. He spoke of love, begged her to come. She stayed. When he slept, she dressed and crept home. Next morning, she left for work without seeing her mother—she couldn’t lie, nor bear more threats of death. Michael flew home alone.
“So, you gave in? What if you’re pregnant? He’s gone—abandoned you. Raising a child alone is hell,” her mother raged after.
“How d’you know he’s left?” VeraVera ignored her mother’s words, cradled her growing belly, and quietly vowed to break the cycle of loneliness for her daughter’s sake.
