**A Daughter for Herself**
Vera stepped into the flat and paused, listening. She shrugged off her coat, kicked off her shoes, and hurried straight to her mother’s room.
The woman lay atop the blankets, eyes closed, hands folded over her chest.
“Mum!” Vera gasped, her voice tight with fear.
“What’s all the shouting?” Her mother’s eyelids lifted slowly.
“You scared me! Lying there like—” Vera cut herself off.
“Just waiting for me to die, are you? Don’t worry, it won’t be long now,” her mother muttered. “Why are you so late?”
“Honestly, Mum! You gave me a fright. I stopped at the shop after work—only fifteen minutes! Do you need anything? I’ll start dinner.”
Vera’s mother had been ill for as long as she could remember. Trips to the GP were as routine as clockwork, yet nothing ever helped. The doctors, according to her mother, were useless—overpaid and clueless.
She’d had Vera late, at forty. A daughter “for herself,” as they say. There’d never been a father in the picture—any questions about him were swiftly shut down. Once, Vera had searched through the two old photo albums tucked away in the cupboard, but not a single man appeared in any of the pictures.
“Burned them all. Why keep photos of a liar?” her mother had snapped. “Men can’t be trusted, love. Keep your distance.”
School trips longer than a day were forbidden.
“We can’t afford it anyway,” her mother would say. “You’ll travel when you’re grown. What if I take ill while you’re gone? I could die, and then where would you be?”
At the slightest complaint, her mother clutched her chest. Vera would race for the pills—heart medication, then nerve tablets—her movements practised from years of repetition. She’d dreamed of becoming a doctor, of curing her mother, but the nearest medical school was in another city. Leaving? Unthinkable. So after school, Vera found work instead.
A small solicitor’s office stood near their building. No vacancy sign, but Vera walked in anyway. The timing was perfect.
The place ran on a skeleton crew. A pregnant receptionist juggled calls, appointments, and—unwillingly—mopping the floors. Vera slid into the role effortlessly. The boss trusted her immediately: quiet, polite, eager. Soon, the receptionist left on maternity leave, and Vera absorbed her duties. The double wage was a blessing.
Back in school, there’d been a boy—Daniel, from the next street over. They’d walked home together a few times, even went to the cinema once. But her mother had warned her: *”Men only want one thing. They’ll take what they can get, then vanish.”*
“Is that what Dad did?” Vera had dared to ask. “Is that why you burned his pictures?”
Her mother stiffened. “No. It wasn’t like that. We loved each other, married, had you. Still, he left—found someone younger. They always do.”
Daniel went off to university. The rare times Vera saw him, he barely acknowledged her—and soon, he was with another girl. *Men betray. Mother was right.*
Clients sometimes flirted with her. She turned them all down. Between work and her mother—her endless ailments, her fragile heart—there was no time. If a man did linger, her mother’s “attacks” always sent Vera rushing home. The paramedics came, did little, left. The suitors never waited.
Years slipped by. Her mother grew frailer, rarely leaving bed. Vera dressed plainly, pinned her hair back. No makeup. Against the polished women at work, she faded into the background.
Then, one icy evening, paramedics took Vera aside. “She’s manipulating you,” the woman said frankly. “Her health’s fine for her age. You need to live your own life.”
Shaken, Vera dismissed her—but the words lingered. Had her mother trapped her all this time?
Days later, she slipped on the ice. A pair of strong hands steadied her.
“Michael,” he introduced himself. “Aunt Anna’s nephew—from Israel.”
They talked outside her flat. He asked her to dinner.
Her mother’s accusing voice followed her inside. “Who was that?”
Vera brushed it off, but that night, her mother clutched her chest dramatically. For once, Vera didn’t panic. “Take your pills, Mum.”
She went to dinner with Michael anyway. He spoke of Tel Aviv, the Dead Sea. Soon, they met every evening after work. When he confessed his feelings—when he asked her to come with him—her heart ached.
“Mum would never survive the move.”
“Then stay,” he urged. “Or let me talk to her—”
“No.”
The night before his flight, Vera went to his flat. She wanted *this*, just once. When he slept, she crept home.
Her mother knew instantly. “You gave yourself to him? What if you’re pregnant? He’s *gone*—”
“How do you know he left?” Vera’s voice was sharp. The flicker in her mother’s eyes told her everything. All those years… lies.
The argument escalated. Then her mother gasped, breath ragged. The hospital confirmed it: her arteries were failing. “A year, maybe less.”
When they returned home, the bitterness between them festered—until Vera realised *she* was pregnant.
“I’m keeping it,” she said fiercely. “For once, I’m choosing *me*.”
Her mother said nothing.
Weeks later, Vera found her dead in bed. The grief was numb, eclipsed by relief. Then—a knock at the door.
Michael stood there, breathless. “Aunt Anna called. I came straight back.”
He knelt before her, hands on her belly. “Is it mine?”
She nodded.
“Come with me,” he whispered.
This time, she said yes.
The flat felt like a cage. She left without a single keepsake—only her daughter, and the man who loved them both.
Mothers and daughters don’t always get it right. Hers had meant to protect her, but nearly stole her life. Without Michael, Vera might have become just like her: bitter, alone.
Now, she’d never look back.
