I was born into a plain, cosy, oddly quiet family. There were four kids two older brothers, a sister and me, the youngest. Everyone called me different things: Ellie, Elly, Elsie, but Dad had his own special nickname for me Blythe. Hed say it like he was rocking me on gentle summer waves, warm and right at home. I loved it and begged everyone to call me that, just like Dad did.
My mum, Margaret, was a shop assistant, and Dad, John, worked as a foreman at the local factory. They lived simply but peacefully, in a soft, steady partnership without big words, just a lot of quiet, reliable warmth.
Dad would come home smelling of motor oil, wind and the road. He always carried bags: jars of pickles from neighbours who couldnt pay cash, sacks of potatoes, even a melon hed haul in at the worst possible moment. He never turned away a request for help.
Mum kept the household finances in order. She was a stickler for tidy accounts, never wasteful, but when it came to books, lessons or clubs shed spend without a second thought. She saved on herself and on Dad, but never on us.
Every Friday, like a little ritual, shed plonk herself in front of the telly, pull out a box of yarn and start mending. Mum fixed all our clothes as patiently as she tended to us with her calm attention. She was softspoken, a bit roundbodied, with thick dark hair always tied in a tight bun. I never heard her argue with Dad. They could chat for hours in hushed tones, as if theyd built their own little world that only they understood.
Dads talk was short and simple.
Alright, kids, all good? hed ask, patting each head in turn. Hed lift me onto his shoulders and toss me up so for a second Id see the world upsidedown, feeling like I was flying. Those were my favourite moments. I thought our family was perfect, like something out of a storybook where everything just works.
At school I was a different creature noisy, bright, full of feelings. Poetry came easy, prose even easier. By Year5 I knew I wanted the stage. I dreamed of drama school. When I told Mum, she nearly spilled her tea. Dad laughed.
Whats the matter, Blythe? Give it a go, he said.
So I followed my path studied, performed at fairs, wrote little scripts and birthday cards. One day I decided to pen a tiny book, a simple story about a girl searching for herself.
I was nervous about letting anyone read the manuscript. I wrote it in secret, late at night, in fragments between other chores. It felt far too personal, not really a book. I resolved to show it only to my best friend, Rose. When she finished it, she blurted out,
I want to give a copy of your book to every woman who comes to my birthday party
I thought shed misheard me.
What book? What are you talking about? Those are drafts
Rose tilted her head, smiled gently and said,
Blythe, youve been giving me your friendship for years, pouring your soul into it. This year I want to share your book with everyone. Its my way of saying thank you. I can afford it.
Those words knocked me sideways. I spent the next two days spiralling, telling myself it was a bad idea, that it wasnt serious. But Rose was already moving forward she found a designer, got a printers contact, kept pressing.
Let it see the light. I know people will love it, she insisted.
And it happened. The little book took off straight away because it was honest, alive, without any fake frills. Readers saw themselves in it their worries, hopes, the truths theyre scared to speak out loud. It sold, and soon people were ordering it as gifts.
Then I wanted to write something deeper, about family, about roots, about the people who made me who I am. That decision opened a door I wasnt prepared for.
I had to talk to my parents, dig into their past, dates, stories. I called Mum, but she answered oddly, with pauses.
John isnt here, she said. Hes away on business.
I was surprised Mum usually knew where Dad was.
I rang Dad straight away; he answered cheerfully,
Hey, Blythe! Im at Grandmas, fixing the fence.
Why hadnt Mum just said that?
On the drive home I realised there was more to her pause than silence.
When I got inside, Mum was in the kitchen. She looked up, whispered,
Were not together anymore that happens sometimes.
Dad and Mum the people Id held inside as an ideal.
It hit me hard. I couldnt breathe or think straight. My brothers and sister had known for ages but kept it from me because Id just had a baby. We wanted to protect you
Protect me from my own family?
I drove to Dads place, demanding answers. He stayed quiet, looking at the floor more than at me. Mum finally broke her silence one day, for the first time:
What makes you think we had a happy marriage, Blythe? You were little, you didnt see everything. We stopped talking for weeks. He never knew how to love. He never will.
Mum, why say that?
He told me himself.
Something inside cracked. I stopped answering his calls, stopped thinking about the book, stopped being me.
When Rose suggested a retreat in Scotland, I laughed it off.
Youre serious? Now? I cant I rattled off excuses. That night, telling my husband about the conversation, he just smiled and said,
Go. You need this.
I opened my mouth to argue, but he gently cut in,
Blythe, go. Well manage.
So I went.
The retreat was run by an extraordinary woman named Sophie Hart. She asked us to call her by that name; her mentor had given it during years of meditation in a remote monastery. Sophie means wisdom, Hart strength. She seemed to have cracked her own nature long ago.
She was luminous not naive, but truly clear. She never said no. It wasnt submission; it was pure acceptance. We travelled to an old stone chapel on the outskirts of the village, whispered to be the rat chapel because hundreds of sacred rats, thought to be ancestral spirits, lived there. We were horrified, but Sophie crouched, fed the little creatures from her palm, murmuring,
Life doesnt always show up the way we expect, but its life everywhere.
She found joy in the sun, each leaf, every blade of grass, the shadow of a pine, the uneven edge of clouds She lived in the here and now, not as a slogan but as a breath.
Her simple sentences shifted something inside me each time.
That evening, after meditation, the sun was a thick, molten orange on the horizon. Sophie suggested we sit in silence on the roof of the lodge while everyone else retreated to their rooms. I agreed. Watching the sunset, I felt a mix of melancholy and loneliness.
Sophie sat beside me, eyes far away, saying nothing. When I exhaled heavily, she turned to me.
Theres tension in your quiet, Blythe, she said. You sit still, but inside yous a storm.
I cracked a smile,
Im always like this. My mind never stops.
No, she replied gently. Today youre not thinking. Today youre hiding.
She looked at me calmly, no pressure, then added,
Sometimes we stay silent not because we dont want to speak, but because were scared to hear our own truth.
Her words struck deep. I turned away, not wanting her to see my trembling lips.
She continued, as if reading my thoughts:
When a woman hides the truth, she first hides it from herself. The heart always knows. Right now yours is restless, like a chick looking for a place to hide.
She then asked, softly,
Where did that chick come from, Blythe? Where does this anxiety spring?
A pause. She stared straight into my heart, not just my eyes.
That was Sophies magic she didnt ask directly, she simply saw, guiding me to the truth by simply being there.
I poured everything out. She listened for a long while, then said,
You love your parents so much you want to rescue them from separation. But remember, children dont save their parents. Children love, then they let go. Youve taken on a burden that isnt yours. You cant hold them together, and you shouldnt have to.
Tears fell. She brushed my hand and whispered,
Youre a daughter, not a judge, not a mediator, not a therapist. Thats the most important part. Reclaim that role and life gets easier.
For the first time in ages I exhaled fully.
Back home, the first thing I did was call Dad.
Dad, Im sorry, please. I love you. Hear that? I love you.
Silence, then a choked voice,
Ive been waiting Blythe waiting for your call
Later that night I visited Mum. We sat at the kitchen table, and she became the bright, slightly embarrassed, funny woman shed once been. We talked until the small hours. I finally saw her not just as Mum but as a woman with her own story, pain, choices, freedom.
A few days later I opened my laptop and started a new book. Not about a perfect family, but about a living one. About love in its many forms, about the road that is just a road, about memory, acceptance. About light that isnt where everythings neat, but where everythings honest.
I knew this time Id write as a woman, as Blythe, who had finally found her world inside.
