You Turned Her Against Me

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 11 minViews 1

13April2025

Ive spent the last few weeks watching my sister Ellens endless battles with our 16yearold niece, Blythe. It all started one rainy evening in our flat on Southbank.

Blythe, come here Ill stick your socks in your rucksack! Ellen shouted, her voice echoing down the hallway. Julia, who was nursing a bitter cup of tea in the kitchen, flinched and barely held back a snide comment.

The lanky girl appeared at the doorway, arms too long for her thin frame, looking as if shed never known what to do with them.

Mom promised itd be warm out, she murmured.

Promised! Ellen snapped, as if the meteorologists had personally insulted her family. And if it gets cold? Or rains? You cant even look after yourself. Youll catch a cold

Julia sipped her coffee, the only thing keeping her tongue from slipping. Shed watched this circus for three years and still hadnt learned to ignore it. Blythe couldnt work the washing machine not because she was dim, but because Ellen never let her near any appliance. Youll mess it up, shed say. Youll flood the neighbours. There are too many cycles. Blythe never took out the rubbish either; Ellen feared shed slip on the stairs or get bitten by the stray dog that roamed the courtyard. Cleaning her own room was also out of the question you only spread the dust, you dont remove it.

Ellen, Julia finally said, shes sixteen. She can put her own socks in a rucksack.

Ellen shot her a look that could have soured the milk in the fridge.

Youve never had children, Julia. You dont understand.

It was the classic, unshakable argument. Julia could have retorted that childlessness didnt make her a fool, but she kept quiet.

Blythe stood at the doorway, eyes fixed on the floor, her expression the same as the rescued dogs at the shelter obedient, hopeless. It was the most terrifying sight.

That same evening I called Ellen.

Ellen, could Blythe crash at my place? I want to rewatch Harry Potter. Shed be lonely on her own.

Ellens voice faltered. I could almost see the gears turning in her head: What if she catches a cold on the way? What if the balcony is open? What if

Fine, Ellen finally relented. But you take her back afterwards. Its only forty metres between our blocks.

Yes, Ill bring her back, I promised.

Half an hour later Blythe was perched on the tiny balcony of my flat, knees pulled up. Id managed to drag a blanket, a couple of cushions and a string of fairy lights up there. We never got around to turning the film on.

Blythe, could you set the kettle on the hob? The kettles broken and the matches are in the cupboard.

She didnt answer, and a bad feeling settled in my stomach.

Do you even know how to use matches? I asked.

She stared at me, and everything clicked.

My mum says I mustnt touch them. We have lighters.

Your mum isnt here. Time to learn!

The first three attempts broke the matches in half too much force, too quick a pull. The fourth succeeded. A tiny flame flared, and Blythe stared at it with the awe of someone whod just discovered fire.

It its normal, she stammered, searching for words.

My heart clenched. Ellens overprotectiveness was turning Blythe into a creature caged in her own home.

A week later Ellen called, panic in her tone.

Can you believe the school is sending the whole class to a camp for three days!

I cranked the speakerphone, still typing a report. The deadline was breathing down my neck, and Ellen was already spiralling.

Whats the point? Its September, itll be cold, therell be drafts, theyll feed us junk, and Blythe could get sick!

Ellen, shes sixteen. She has an immune system, a coat, and a brain whatever you let her have.

Very funny, Ellen hissed. I wont let her go.

Did you ask Blythe? I asked.

Silence.

Why? Im her mother, I know best.

I closed my laptop. It was pointless to work while the whole house was a pressure cooker.

You think she shouldnt talk to classmates? That she should stay home while everyone else sings around a fire with guitars? Ellens voice quivered with genuine fear.

Fires? I whispered.

Blythe didnt go to the camp. I saw her that day in her room, scrolling through her friends stories pictures from the bus, silly faces, laughter. She stared at the screen, her face a blank slate.

In March, Blythe turned eighteen. I gave her a small, bright orange rucksack nothing like the drab grey bags Ellen approved.

She smiled sadly. In her eyes flickered something I couldnt name. Not anger, not resentment, but a deep, boneweary fatigue the kind that comes from giving up the fight long ago.

In May I rented a cottage in the Cotswolds: a modest timber house with a sagging porch and an apple orchard. The internet was patchy, but it was enough for me.

I want Blythe to come with me, I told Ellen.

She almost dropped her frying pan.

All summer? In the country? There isnt even a proper doctor!

Theres a small health centre, and the nearest town is a halfhours drive. Not the wilderness.

What if a tick bites? What if she eats poisonous mushrooms?

She wont eat mushrooms, I replied calmly. And Ill be there to look after her.

It took a week of pleading. I argued fresh air, quiet, a break from the citys roar. Ellen listed the lack of a proper pharmacy, untested well water, and the village dogs. Blythe stayed silent, accustomed to being left out of decisions about her own life.

Fine, Ellen finally sighed. But call every day, photograph everything she eats, and bring her home immediately if her temperature rises.

Her list filled three pages in a notebook, which I later tossed in the bin.

The cottage greeted us with the scent of dry herbs and old timber. Blythe stood in the yard, head tilted back, eyes scanning the endless blue sky, devoid of any highrise silhouette.

It feels empty here, she whispered.

Its spacious, I corrected. Can you manage the kettle? The stove is gas.

She went pale.

Yes!

The first week I taught her the basics: loading the ancient washing machine that rattled like an old engine, measuring out detergent, not overfilling it. She burnt an omelette, flooded the floor by forgetting to turn off the tap, and washed a white tee together with red socks. Yet each mishap brought something new to her face not despair, but a spark of excitement, a yearning to try again.

Ive cooked rice myself! she shouted one morning, brandishing a pot. It was overcooked and clumped, but she beamed as if shed just won a Nobel prize.

Congratulations, I said dryly. Now you can survive an apocalypse.

She laughed, loud and genuine, her head thrown back. I hadnt heard that sound in ages.

The village had about twenty residents mostly retirees and a few families on summer break. Mrs. Clarke, an elderly neighbour, took Blythe under her wing and taught her to milk a goat. Josh, a local lad her age, took her fishing. I watched Blythe learn to converse without hiding behind her mothers shadow, to meet eyes, to laugh at jokes.

By midsummer I allowed her to shop alone, a mileandahalf walk on a dusty lane past a field of sunflowers.

What if I get lost? she asked, curiosity in her voice, not fear.

Theres only one road. You cant get lost even if you try.

She returned an hour later with bread, milk and a grin wide enough to split the sky.

I made it, she announced.

Wow, a real achievement, I muttered, then pulled her into a tight hug.

Three months flew by. Blythe now prepared five dishes, washed, ironed, and budgeted her weekly spend. She joined the village boys at the stream, helped Mrs. Clarke weed the garden, and read on the porch until darkness fell. I saw a completely different person no longer the holloweyed girl who stared at the wall.

Returning to London was hard. Ellen opened the front door and stared at Blythe as if shed landed from another planet.

Blythe? You look tanned.

And I can make borscht now, Blythe replied. Want me to cook it for you?

Ellens eyes widened.

Borscht? You? What have you done to her?

The following weeks turned into a battle. Blythe decided to find work. She sent out CVs, attended interviews, answered recruiters calls. Ellen paced the flat, clutching her phone, halfcrying, halfshouting.

You dont need a job! I earn enough!

I do, Mum, Blythe said calmly, but I want to be independent.

Youre still a child!

Im eighteen.

She landed a job as a junior administrator in a small café near my office. Not a fortune, but it was a start.

From her first pay packet she began saving. Three months later she sat at my kitchen table scrolling through rental listings.

This ones decent, she pointed at a onebed flat not far from her work, affordable.

Your mother will be furious, I warned.

I know.

Shell curse me, I said, smiling despite myself.

I know that too, Blythe replied, her eyes flashing with a resolve Id never seen before. But I cant keep living under her thumb, Aunt Mark. She still checks if Ive turned the bathroom light off. Im eighteen, and I decide when I go to bed.

I nodded.

Lets go see it.

Ellen howled for hours, accusing me of ruining her family.

This is your fault! All summer you filled her head with nonsense! You destroyed my life!

Mark, I waited for a pause, I taught her how to live. What you were supposed to do, but were too scared to.

Scared? I was protecting her!

You were overprotecting. You locked Blythe in that flat.

Ellen sank onto a chair, her face paling.

Shes my daughter, she whispered.

Shes an adult now, and she wants to know what life looks like beyond your fears.

In early December Blythe moved into that tiny flat with low ceilings and a squeaky floor. She ran around, hanging curtains, arranging furniture, eyes sparkling as if shed just entered a palace.

Look, she opened the fridge, I bought the groceries myself! And I hung the curtains a bit crooked, but Ill fix them.

I stood in the doorway, grinning. My clumsy, inexperienced girl was finally breathing freely.

Thank you, she said over evening tea in her new kitchen, for the matches, for the cottage, for everything.

You didnt do anything special, I shrugged.

You set me free.

She smiled, and I squeezed her hand.

Lesson learned: sheltering someone out of love can become a prison. True care means giving them the tools and space to step out on their own, even if it scares you.

Here you are, love—from Mum, for you and your little brothers. Eat up, darlings. It’s no sin to share; the only sin is turning a blind eye. Alina was just six, yet life had already placed a weight on her shoulders most children could never name. She grew up in a tiny English village, in an old cottage held together more by prayer than brick and mortar. When the wind howled, the creaky boards moaned like distant weeping, and at night, the cold slipped through every crack, never bothering to ask permission. Her parents worked odd jobs—one day there was work, the next, none. Sometimes they came home tired, their hands rough and eyes hollow, their pockets nearly as empty as their hope. Alina would stay home with her two younger brothers, holding them close whenever hunger ached worse than the cold. That day was December. A true English December: skies the colour of lead, and air sharp with the first scent of snow. Christmas was knocking on doors, but not theirs. On the stove, a simple stew of potatoes simmered—no meat, no spices, but all the love in her mother’s heart. Alina stirred it slowly, as if wishing the food would stretch further for everyone. Suddenly, a rich, tempting aroma drifted from next door. It reached your soul before your stomach. The neighbours were roasting their Christmas goose. Voices rang out, laughter, the clink of plates, the sizzle of meat in the pan. For Alina, that sound was a fairy tale told from far away. She tiptoed to the fence, her brothers clutching at her coat. She swallowed hard. She wasn’t asking for anything. Just watching. Her big brown eyes brimmed with a silent longing. She knew it wasn’t right to covet what you don’t have—her mum had taught her that. But her little heart didn’t know how not to dream. “Oh, please, God,” she whispered, “just a little…” Just then, as if her wish had been heard, a gentle voice cut through the chilly air: “Alina, sweetheart!” She startled. “Come here, love!” Old Mrs. Violet stood by her back door, cheeks rosy from the fire, eyes warm as a glowing hearth. Stirring her pot slowly, she gazed at Alina with a kindness the girl hadn’t felt in a long while. “Here you are, love—for you and your brothers,” she said with simple, natural goodness. Alina paused, shame tightening her chest. Was she allowed to feel happy? But the old lady beckoned again, and her trembling hands filled a food container with hot, golden goose and the scent of proper celebration. “Eat up, darlings. It’s no sin to share. The only sin is turning a blind eye.” Alina’s tears finally fell. She wasn’t crying for hunger, but because, for the first time, someone truly saw her—not as “the poor girl,” but as a child. She ran home, clutching the warm food to her chest as if it were a sacred gift. Her little brothers cheered, and, for just a moment, their small house was filled with laughter, warmth, and a smell it had never known. When her parents returned that evening, tired and shivering, they found their children eating and smiling. Her mother wept silently; her father doffed his cap and thanked heaven. That night, there was no Christmas tree. No presents. But there was kindness. And sometimes, that’s all you need to feel you’re not alone in this world. There are children like Alina, even now, who ask for nothing… they just watch. They peer through garden gates, at warm, glowing homes, at tables groaning with food, at other people’s Christmas. 🤍 Sometimes, a meal, a small gesture, a kind word can become the most beautiful gift in a lifetime. 👉 If this story has touched you, don’t just walk away.

“Well, That’s Settled!” Exclaimed Alex. “Of Course, the Man Should Always Have the Final Say!” One Morning, the Effingham’s Grown-Up Grandson Arrived from London—Just Recently Married, the Family Having Attended His Wedding. Alex Came Round for Potatoes, as He Always Helped His Beloved Nan and Granddad Plant and Dig Them Up. “So, Alex, Tell Me,” Nan Asked as She Bustled in the Kitchen, “How’s Life With Your Svetlana?” “It’s a Mixed Bag, Nan…” Alex Replied Reluctantly. “Sometimes Good, Sometimes Not So Much…” “Wait—What Do You Mean By That?” Granddad John Looked Concerned. “You Two Arguing Already?” “Well, Not Exactly, Granddad. We’re Still Figuring Out Who’s the Boss in Our Home,” Alex Confessed. Nan Sighed With a Chuckle, “Oh, Bother! That Should Be Obvious.” Granddad Laughed, “Of Course It’s Obvious—the Lady of the House Always Calls the Shots!” “Oh, Really Now…” Came the Response from the Kitchen. “Granddad, Are You Serious?” Alex Looked at Him in Amazement. “You’re Not Just Joking?” “Not at All,” John Responded Firmly. “If You Don’t Believe Me, Ask Your Nan. Well, Catherine, Who Always Has the Last Word in Our Home?” “Don’t Be Silly,” Nan Answered Fondly. “No, Go On—Who Decides in the End, You or Me?” “Well, I Suppose I Do…” “How’s That?” Alex Said in Disbelief. “I’ve Never Noticed That Before. And Frankly, I Think the Man Should Always Be the Head of the House.” “Oh, Give Over, Alex,” Granddad Chortled. “In a Real Family, It’s Not Like You Imagine. Let Me Tell You a Few Stories and You’ll See for Yourself.” A Story “Here We Go,” Nan Grumbled. “He’ll Be on About His Motorbike Now.” “What Motorbike?” Alex Asked in Surprise. “The Rusty One in the Shed,” Granddad Confirmed Cheerfully. “It’s Nearer a Hundred Years Old Than Not. Guess How Your Nan Made Me Buy It?” “Nan? Made You?” “Yes. She Gave Me the Money Herself, Out of Her Own Savings. But There’s Another Story Before That.” One Time I Earned Enough for a Motorbike With a Sidecar. I Told Catherine—Your Nan—I Wanted to Buy It, So I Could Bring Potatoes Home From the Field. Used to Get Allotments Out in the Countryside for Our Potatoes. Your Nan Was Dead Set Against It. She Said, “Let’s Get a Colour TV Instead.” They Were an Arm and a Leg Back Then. “You Always Managed to Bring The Potatoes Back On Your Bike—Keep Doing That.” Sack on the Crossbar and Off You Go. “Alright,” I Said, “You’ll Have the Final Word, as Usual.” So We Bought the TV. “And the Motorbike?” Alex Asked, Confused. “We Got the Motorbike Too,” Nan Sighed. “But Much Later. Granddad Hurt His Back So Badly I Had to Lug the Potatoes Myself. Did Almost All of It Alone. Then, Come November When We Sold the Pigs for Meat, I Gave Him Every Penny and Said, ‘Off to Town—Go Get Your Motorbike With the Sidecar.’” “And the Next Autumn We Had Some Money Again,” Granddad Continued. “I Said, ‘Let’s Build a New Shed—with the Old One Rotting and Falling to Bits.’ But Your Nan Started Again: ‘Let’s Buy Proper Furniture, Make It Like Other People’s Homes.’ Fine, I Said, You Always Get the Final Word. We Bought the Furniture. “And Come Spring, the Old Shed Collapsed Under the Heavy Snow,” Nan Finished the Tale. “Roof Gave Out Completely. Since Then, I Decided: We’ll Do It as John Says, Every Time.” “Well, There We Are!” Alex Exclaimed. “Just as I Said! The Man Always Gets the Last Word!” “No, Alex, You’ve Got It Wrong,” Granddad Laughed. “Before I Do Anything, I Go Up to Your Nan and Say—‘I Want to Rebuild the Fireplace. What Do You Think?’ If She Agrees, We Do It. If Not, We Don’t—Her Word Is Final.” “After All That, I Always Say—‘Let’s Do Whatever You Think Best,’” Nan Chimed In. “So Really, Alex, In Every Family, It’s the Wife Who Has the Final Say,” Granddad Concluded. “D’you See What I Mean?” Alex Thought It Over, Then Burst Out Laughing. After a Moment’s Reflection, His Face Lit Up. “Now I Get It, Granddad. I’ll Go Home and Tell Sveta: ‘Alright, Love, Let’s Holiday in Turkey Like You Want. The Car Can Wait for Repairs. If It Breaks Down, We’ll Take the Bus All Winter—We’ll Just Get Up an Hour Earlier for Work. Not the End of the World, Is It?’ That Sound About Right, Granddad?” “Absolutely Spot On,” Granddad Nodded. “And Give It a Year or Two, Everything Will Sort Itself Out. And Honestly, the Wife Should Always Be Head of the Family. Makes Life Easier for Us Chaps—I Should Know…”

“Late from Work Again?” he Snapped Jealously—“I Know Everything Now” Lena froze, hand on the cold door handle, damp with melting snow, as her husband, Andrew—still in his dressing-gown and wrinkled tee—confronted her in their airless, tension-filled London flat. The scent of fried onions mingled with the heavy, stale anger that had haunted their home for weeks, burrowing into the curtains and her skin. Clutching her bag, Lena mumbled her usual excuse: the Tube delays, snow and rush hour on the North Circular. But Andrew cut her off, fury rising—he’d called her work, spoken with security. She’d left hours ago. So, where had she really been? Was there someone else—a new, younger colleague, perhaps, or that old friend she’d once mentioned? Their nineteen-year-old son, Chris, pale and sleepless, poked his head out of his room, nervously pleading with his parents not to shout, only to be sent away. Cornered, Lena tried to explain: job cuts at work, visiting her mum, popping to the chemist. Andrew, unconvinced, flung her pawn shop receipt in her face—a sale of the gold bracelet he’d given her for their anniversary. Desperation mounting, Lena left, taking a bag and a mysterious envelope. Out in the blizzard, she wandered the empty streets, ultimately taking shelter in a grimy railway café, clutching last year’s family holiday photo as the true weight of her secret pressed in: after their son’s hit-and-run, she’d done anything to hide his guilt—even sell their belongings and borrow from friends, all to meet the blackmailing demands of the grieving father. But Andrew, following her secret rendezvous, arrived just as Lena handed over the money. The whole grisly truth spilled out—Chris, their son, was the driver. Andrew, devastated, refused to buy a conscience with money. Together, father and son walked out into the snow towards the police station, leaving Lena alone to weep—not out of fear, but for the irretrievable loss now hanging over all their futures. Truth Hurts Deeper than Betrayal: When a Mother’s Desperation, a Father’s Integrity, and a Family’s Darkest Secret Collide on a Snowy London Night

Come In, Jamie… — “Miss, but we don’t have any money…” the boy said timidly, eyeing the bag full of everything. After Christmas, the town felt sadder. Lights still dangled from lampposts but warmed no one. People rushed about, shops were almost empty, and homes were heavy with too much leftover food and too much quiet. In the big Evans family house, tables had been lavishly set, as always. Christmas puddings, roasts, salads, oranges—far more than needed. Mrs Evans gathered plates slowly, looking at the food with a lump in her throat, knowing some would be thrown away. The thought pained her. On a sudden impulse, she went to the window. That’s when she saw him. Jamie. Standing by the gate, small and silent, woolly hat pulled down, thin coat buttoned up. He didn’t gaze longingly at the house, just waited… without the courage to knock. Her heart tightened. A few days before Christmas, she’d seen him staring through shop windows at the displays of Christmas feasts. He never begged, never bothered anyone—just looked, eyes full of quiet hunger and resignation. She’d never forgotten that look. Suddenly she understood. She put down the plates and grabbed a large bag, filling it with bread, fruit cake, roast meat, fruit, sweets. Another bag, and another—everything left from the festivities. She opened the door quietly. — Jamie… come in, love. The boy startled, shuffled closer, uncertain. — Take this home, she said gently, holding out the bags. Jamie froze. — Miss… we… we haven’t got money… — You don’t need money, she replied. Just eat. His hands shook as he took the bags, clutching them to his chest like something fragile, something sacred. — Thank you, he whispered, tears in his eyes. Mrs Evans watched him leave—slower than he’d come, as if he wished the moment would never end. That night, in a small house, a mother cried with gratitude. A child ate his fill. And a family felt less alone. In the big house, the tables were empty, but the hearts were full. Because true richness isn’t what you keep, It’s what you give, when no one is watching. And maybe Christmas isn’t just for a day— Maybe it begins every time you open the door… And say, “Come in.” 💬 Type “KINDNESS” in the comments and share this story—sometimes a small act changes a life.