Blythe, come here, Ill put your socks in your backpack! Helens voice rang through the flat, and I, seated at the kitchen table, startled, fighting the urge to retort.
My sixteenyearold niece appeared obediently at the door. She was tall and gangly, longarmed, as if she never knew what to do with them.
Mom says the weather will stay warm, she muttered.
Warm, she says! Helen snorted, as though the Met Office had personally insulted her family. And if it gets chilly? If it rains? You cant look after yourself, Blythe. Youll catch something
I sipped my coffeebitter, unpleasant, but at least it gave my mouth something to do and kept me from blurting out more. Id watched this farce for three years and still hadnt grown used to it. Blythe could never turn on the washing machine. Not because she was foolish, but because her mother had never let her near any appliance. Youll break it, shed warned. Youll flood the neighbours. The cycles are too complicated. The girl didnt take out the rubbish either; Helen feared shed slip on the stairs or be bitten by the stray dog that roamed the courtyard. Cleaning her own room was forbidden as well Youll just spread the dust, not remove it.
Helen, I finally said, shes sixteen. She can slip her socks into a backpack herself.
Helen shot me a look that could have curdled the milk in the fridge.
Julia, you dont have children. You dont understand.
That was the perennial argument, solid as a brick wall. I could have fired back that childlessness did not make me a fool, but I stayed silent. It was useless.
Blythe stood at the doorway, staring at the floor. The expression on her face reminded me of the resigned dogs in the shelter compliant, hopeless. It was the most terrifying thing of all.
That evening I called Helen.
Lena, could Blythe stay over? I want to rewatch Harry Potter. Shell be bored alone.
Helen faltered. In my mind I could 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, Helen finally relented. But youll have to take her home afterwards. You never know.
Its only forty metres from my block to yours, I replied.
Julia!
Alright, alright. Ill see her off.
Half an hour later Blythe was perched on the tiny balcony of my flat, knees drawn up. The balcony was cramped but cosy Id dragged a blanket, some cushions and a string of fairy lights up there. We never got round to turning on the film.
Blythe, put the kettle on the hob. My stoves broken, and the matches are in the cupboard! I called.
She didnt answer, and a nasty suspicion crept up my spine.
Do you know how to use matches? I asked.
She gave me a look that made everything clear.
Mother said I mustnt touch them. Besides, we have lighters.
Your mum isnt here. Time you learned something!
The first three attempts saw Blythe snap the matches in half too hard, too fast. On the fourth she finally coaxed a tiny flame, staring at it with the awe of someone whod just performed a miracle.
Its its normal, she stammered, searching for the right words.
My heart clenched. My sisters overprotectiveness had consigned Blythe to a life inside a cage.
A week later Helen rang in a panic.
Can you imagine? The school is taking the whole class to a camp for three days!
What now? I put the phone on speaker, still typing a report. Remote work, the deadline breathing down my neck, and my sisters latest catastrophe.
September! Itll be cold! Therell be drafts, theyll feed us whatever, and she might fall ill!
Helen, shes sixteen. She has an immune system, a coat, a brain whatever you think she ought to have.
Very funny, Helen snapped, hurt. Im not letting her go.
Did you ask Blythe?
Silence.
Why would I? Im her mother. I know best.
I shut my laptop. It was useless to work while the whole house was a pressure cooker.
Do you think she shouldnt mingle with classmates? That she should stay at home while the others sit around a campfire singing?
Campfires?! Helens voice trembled with genuine terror. There will be campfires?
Blythe never went to the camp. I saw her that day, perched in her room, scrolling through strangers stories: classmates posting bus photos, making faces, goofing off. She stared at the phone, her face a blank slate.
When Blythe turned eighteen in March, I gave her a small orangecoloured backpack, cheeky and bright, nothing like the drab satchels Helen approved of.
She smiled sadly. In her eyes flickered something I could not name not anger, not resentment, but a deep, weary fatigue, the sort that settles over a person who has long stopped fighting.
In May I rented a cottage in the Kentish hills, a modest timber house with a sagging porch and an orchard of apple trees. The internet was patchy, but it was enough for work.
Id like to bring Blythe with me, I told Helen.
Helen nearly dropped the frying pan.
All summer? To the country? Theres not even a proper doctor nearby!
Lyn, theres a healthpost just a halfhours drive, and its not the wilderness.
What if a tick bites? What if she eats poisonous mushrooms? What if
She wont eat mushrooms, I replied patiently. And Ill be right there watching over her.
It took a week of bargaining. I argued fresh air, quiet, a break from city clamor. Helen countered with lack of a decent pharmacy, untested well water, the village dogs. Blythe kept quiet; she had long stopped taking part in decisions about her own life.
Fine, Helen finally relented. But call every day. Photograph everything she eats. If her temperature rises, bring her back immediately.
Three pages of conditions filled my notebook, which I later tossed in the bin.
The cottage greeted us with the scent of dry herbs and old wood. Blythe stood in the yard, head lifted, gazing at the endless blue sky, no rooftops in sight.
It feels empty here, she whispered.
Free, I corrected. Can you manage the kettle? The stove is gas, youll manage?
Blythes face went pale.
Yes! she said.
The first week I taught her the basics: loading the ancient washing machine that rattled like a propeller plane, measuring out detergent, not overfilling the tub. She made mistakes burnt the eggs, flooded the floor by forgetting to turn off the tap, mixed red socks with a white shirt. Yet each failure brought a new spark to her eyes, not despair but a thrill, a hunger to try again.
I boiled rice myself! Blythe shouted one morning, brandishing a pot.
The rice was mushy, clumped together, but she beamed as if shed won the Nobel Prize.
Congratulations, I said solemnly. Now you could survive a apocalypse.
She laughed, a full, hearty laugh, head thrown back. I could not recall the last time Id heard such sound.
The village housed about twenty souls mainly retirees and a few families on summer holiday. Mrs. Zina, a kindly neighbor, took Blythe under her wing and taught her to milk a goat. Young Pash, Blythes age, took her fishing. I watched Blythe learn to converse without hiding behind her mothers shadow, answering simple questions, meeting eyes, laughing at jokes.
By midsummer I let her venture to the shop alone a mileandahalf walk on a dirt road past a field of sunflowers.
What if I get lost? Blythe asked, curiosity bright, not fear.
Theres only one road. You cant get lost, even if you tried.
She returned an hour later with bread, milk and a wide grin.
I made it, she announced.
Well, thats an achievement, I snorted, but pulled her into a tight hug.
Three months passed in a blur. Blythe learned five dishes, how to wash, iron and budget for a week. She waded in the river with village lads, helped Mrs. Zina weed the garden, read on the porch till dark. I saw a completely different person no longer the holloweyed girl.
Returning home was hard. Helen opened the front door and stared at Blythe as if shed landed from another planet.
Blythe? she asked, disbelief in her voice. You look tanned.
And I can make borscht, Blythe replied. Want me to cook it?
Helens eyes widened.
Borscht? You? Julia, 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 recruiter calls. Helen paced the flat, clutching her chest, then her phone.
You dont need a job! I earn enough!
Its my choice, Mum, Blythe said quietly, but firmly. I want to be an adult.
Youre still a child!
Im eighteen.
She landed a position as a barista in a small café near the house not much, but it was a first step into adulthood.
From her first wages she began saving. Three months later she sat at my kitchen table scrolling through rental ads.
This one looks decent, she pointed at the screen. A onebed flat, close to work, cheap.
Mum will be angry, I warned.
I know.
Shell curse me, I smirked, though I was smiling.
I know that too. Blythe lifted her gaze, determination now shining where there had been none. But I cant keep living like this, Aunt Julia. She still checks whether Ive switched off the bathroom light. Im eighteen, and Im still reporting my bedtime.
I nodded.
So, lets go see it.
Helen screamed for hours. I let her vent, not interrupting.
You made her this way! All summer you filled her head with nonsense! You broke my family!
Helen, I waited for a pause, I taught her to live. What you were supposed to do, you were too scared to do.
Scared? I was protecting her!
You were coddling her, I said calmly, merely stating the fact. You were so afraid something would happen that you locked Blythe inside this flat.
Helen sank onto a chair, her face turning ashen.
Shes my daughter, she whispered.
Shes a grownup now. She wants to see what lies beyond your fears.
Blythe moved in early December. The flat was tiny, lowceilinged, floorboards that creaked, but she flitted about, arranging furniture with the excitement of someone moving into a palace.
Look, she opened the fridge, I bought the groceries myself! I even hung the curtains theyre crooked, but Ill fix them.
I stood in the doorway, smiling. My onceawkward, inexperienced, beautiful girl was finally breathing freely.
Thank you, Blythe said that evening over tea in her new kitchen. For the matches. For the village. For everything.
You did nothing special, I replied.
You set me free, she smiled.
I reached out and squeezed her fingers.
