Faith stepped into the flat and listened. She quickly shed her coat and heels, heading straight to her mum’s room.
Mum lay on top of the duvet, eyes shut, hands folded over her chest.
“Mum!” Faith gasped.
“What’s all the shouting?” 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 grumbled. “Why are you so late?”
“Mum, don’t say things like that. I really was frightened. I popped into the shop after work, only fifteen minutes. Do you need anything? I’ll go make dinner.”
Mum had always been poorly, as far back as Faith could remember. Trips to the GP were as regular as clockwork, always complaining the doctors were useless, just taking their wages for nothing. Couldn’t diagnose, couldn’t treat.
She’d had Faith late, at forty. “Just for me,” as they say. No father in the picture. Mum shut down any talk of him. When Faith was older, she scoured their two photo albums but found no trace of any men.
“Burned them all. Why keep pictures of a traitor?” Mum had said. “Men aren’t to be trusted, love. Best keep your distance.”
School trips longer than a day were out of the question.
“Money’s tight as it is. 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 the world.”
At the slightest thing, Mum clutched her chest. Faith would panic, racing for the pills—heart meds, nerve meds, she knew them all by heart. It made her dream of being a doctor just to fix Mum.
But their town had no medical school. Studying elsewhere? Unthinkable. Who’d look after Mum? They scraped by, especially after Mum retired. So Faith got a job after school.
A small solicitor’s office stood near their block. No vacancies posted, but Faith wandered in on a whim. Turned out, luck was on her side.
The place ran on a skeleton crew. A pregnant receptionist juggled calls, appointments, and odd jobs—even mopping up by day’s end. She’d been begging the boss for a cleaner. Faith—quiet, polite—was perfect. They took her on.
Rainy days meant extra mopping. Otherwise, she helped file, greet clients, make copies. The receptionist taught her the computer ropes. When maternity leave came, Faith slid into her role, doubling her wages—pure joy.
Back in school, she’d fancied a boy from the next block. They walked home together; he even took her to the cinema twice. That’s when Mum warned her: lads only want one thing. Take advantage, then vanish. Leave her raising a baby alone, just like Mum had.
“Did Dad trick you too? Is that why you burned his photos?” Faith guessed.
Mum flustered, then stiffened.
“No. With your dad, it was different. We loved each other, married, had you. But he still left—found someone younger. Men always stray. Don’t trust them.”
The bit about having a child alone? Mum skipped that.
After school, the boy went off to uni. They rarely crossed paths. Then she saw him with a girlfriend—he looked right through her. “Traitors, the lot,” Mum’s voice echoed.
Young clients at the office tried their luck with Faith. She turned them down. Mum was always ill, always needing her—blood pressure, backache, joints. Lately, her heart “acted up” more. Faith rushed home after work.
If a suitor so much as lingered, Mum would ring, saying her heart was “playing up again”—as if she sensed it. Faith would bolt home, call an ambulance. The doc would give a jab, leave. No real danger. But the suitor? Gone by the time Faith returned.
Youth slipped by while Mum “lingered,” scarcely leaving bed. Men stopped noticing Faith—her plain clothes, hair pinned back, no makeup. Faded next to polished colleagues and clients.
One ambulance call, the doctor pulled Faith aside.
“Not my place, but your mum’s manipulating you. She’s fine. Joint pain? Normal at her age. Blood pressure’s grand. You need to stand firm, live your own life.”
“How dare you?” Faith bristled.
“I’ve been here before. Her health’s average for her years. She can manage alone—certainly doesn’t need bed rest. Don’t abandon her, but don’t live for her. Marry, have kids before it’s too late. Hire a carer.”
Faith fumed, but the words stuck. She’d never been anywhere, never done anything. One kiss, years ago. Over thirty now. Was Mum really faking to keep her close? No. Couldn’t be.
Then, one icy evening, Faith slipped near home. Strong hands caught her.
“Thanks,” she murmured, turning to see a man.
“Let me walk you.” He took her bags, steering her inside.
“How d’you know where I live?”
“I’ve heard about you. My aunt sings your praises.”
“Who’s your aunt?”
“Margaret from the fifth floor.”
“Oh. You’re visiting?”
“Yes. My parents passed; I’m back to tidy things up.”
“Where from?”
“Australia. Born here, but moved after uni when they died.”
They chatted by her door.
“Auntie says you care for your mum. But… fancy a coffee? Just a chat.”
She liked him.
“Maybe,” she said, flushing—suddenly prettier for it. She fumbled with her keys, hiding her face.
“Name’s Michael. You’re Faith. Lovely name. So, settled?” He handed back her bag.
She nodded, darting inside. Heart racing, cheeks burning.
“Who was that?” Mum called.
Faith froze, dumped the shopping, then faced her. Mum squinted.
“Margaret’s nephew. Just bumped into him.”
“Eyes lit up like Blackpool! Lying. Asked you out, didn’t he?”
“Didn’t ask anything. I’ll make dinner.” She fled.
All night, she thought of Michael—and decided against seeing him. Mum was right. He’d fly back, leave her alone.
Mum sulked, skipped supper, then clutched her chest.
“Call an ambulance, love. I’m poorly.”
This time, Faith remembered the doctor. She fetched pills and water.
“Enough, Mum. Take these. You’ll be fine.”
Next evening, Faith went to a café with Michael. He spoke of Australia, the Outback… Soon, he met her after work daily. One night, he confessed he fancied her, asked her to come with him.
“I fancy you too. But I can’t. Mum’s not as ill as she pretends, but I can’t leave her.”
“No bother. Bring her.”
“No.” Faith shook her head. “Even if she survived the flight, the heat’d finish her. She’d never go.”
“Let me talk to her. Australia’s got top doctors—”
“Yes, but they can’t fix age. Go without me.”
“Faith, think. There’s time. I’d stay, but I’ve got work, a home there. Talk to her. I’ll hire the best carer—”
“No.”
As Michael’s departure neared, Faith agonised. Mum’s warnings warred with her heart. This might be her only chance at love. Coincidence or not, Margaret left to nurse a sick friend.
Michael met her as usual.
“Invite me up,” she said.
Better now with him than never with anyone. Michael spoke of love, begged her to come. She stayed. When he slept, she dressed and slipped home. At dawn, she left for work, avoiding Mum’s room. Couldn’t lie, couldn’t bear another “I’ll die without you.” Michael flew back alone.
“Got what you wanted, did you? What if you’re pregnant? He’s gone. Know how hard it is raising a child alone?” Mum snapped after.
“How d’you know he left? You never leave the flat—can’t even get up. You’ve been lying! Just to keep me from marrying? Made me your nursemaid! No husband, no kids, no life—” Faith choked back a scream.
“And don’t roll your eyes. I don’t believe—”
Mum went grey, gasping.
“Mum? What’s wrong?” Faith grabbed the phone, called 999, babbling apologies.
In A&E, they said Mum needed a bypass. Risky at her age.
“How long without it?”
“A year. Maybe. If she’s calm.”
Home again, Faith tended her fiercely, weathering the barbs.
“Won’t be long now… soon you’ll be rid of me.”
Remembering theFaith held her newborn daughter close, gazing at the distant horizon through the plane window, finally free to write her own story.
