16October2025
Dear Diary,
We despised her the moment she crossed the threshold of our cottage in Norfolk. Her sweater was plain, yet her hands were different from Mumsshorter, stubbier, the fingers clasped together like a locked fist. Her legs were slimmer, her feet longer.
Freddy, my brother, was seven; I was nine. We tossed stale jokes at her, calling her LongBlythe because she seemed to stretch a mile for a Blythe that was barely a foot long. Dad noticed our rudeness and scolded us: Behave yourself, you two! Dont act like uncouth brats.
Is she staying for good? Freddy asked, his tone dripping with entitlementhe could speak that way, being the younger boy.
Forever, Dad replied.
I sensed his irritation growing. If he lost his temper, wed be in real trouble, so we kept quiet.
An hour later Blythe gathered her things to leave. As she slipped on her shoes, Freddy tried to trip her. She nearly tumbled down the hallway.
Dad panicked: What happened?
She stumbled over someones shoes, she said, not even looking at Freddy.
Everythings a mess. Ill clean it up, he promised, eager to prove he cared.
Thats when I realised he loved her. No matter how hard we tried, we couldnt push her out of our lives.
One afternoon, when Blythe was alone with us, she announced in a flat voice, Your mother has died. Shes now on the other side, watching everything. I doubt shed approve of your behaviour.
We froze.
Freddy, Charlotte, youre good kids! Is that how you honour Mums memory? Good deeds make a good person. I cant believe youre as prickly as hedgehogs! she added, trying to curb our nastiness.
Her words gradually dulled my urge to be cruel.
I helped her unpack groceries once. Blythe praised me, ran a hand down my back. Her fingers werent Mums, but the gesture felt warm.
Freddys jealousy flared. He straightened the washed mugs on the shelf, and Blythe thanked him. Later that evening he boasted loudly to Dad about how helpful wed been. Dad smiled.
Her foreignness kept us on edge for a long while. We wanted to let her in, but it never seemed to happen. A year passed and we forgot how life was without her. Then, after an incident, we fell for Blythe completely, just like Dad did.
When Freddy reached Year7, school life turned sour. A bully named Victor Hargreaves, same height but far more brazen, started picking on him. Victors family was welloff; his father openly told him, Youre a man, fight back. Dont wait for anyone to step on you. Victor chose Freddy as an easy target.
Victor began punching Freddy openly, landing blows each time he passed. I managed to coax the bruises out of Freddy after a great struggle, learning that boys think they shouldnt burden sisters with their pain. Unbeknownst to us, Blythe stood behind the door, listening.
Freddy begged me not to tell Dad, fearing things would worsen. He also pleaded that I not go after Victors face right thenthough I wanted to protect my brother at any cost. Involving Dad would only drag Victors dad into a feud that could end in jail.
The next day was Friday. Blythe, pretending to run an errand, took us to school and slipped a note asking me to show Victor to the staff room. I did, thinking, Let him have a taste of his own medicine.
The Russian lesson started. Blythe popped into the classroom, hair neatly done, manicured nails, voice sweet as honey, and asked Victor to step out because she had business with him. The teacher, none the wiser, let him leave. Victor, believing Blythe was a new organiser, complied. She seized him by the shoulders, lifted him off the floor and hissed:
What do you want from my brother?
From which brother? Victor stammered.
From Freddy Hargreaves!
IIdont want anything
I want nothing! If you ever lay a hand on my brother again, look at me straight or Ill crush you, you wwworm!
Please, lady, let me goI wont bother him again! Victor squealed.
Off you go! Blythe snapped. If you say another word about me, Ill have your father locked up for corrupting a minor. Got that? Tell the teacher Im a neighbour who needs a key. After school youll apologise to Freddy, and Ill make sure it happens.
Victor scurried back, adjusting his uniform, mumbling about the neighbour. He never looked at Freddy the same way again; he avoided him altogether and offered a hurried apology that very afternoon.
Blythe asked us not to tell Dad, but we couldnt hold it in and blurted everything out. He was impressed.
At some point Blythe guided me onto a better path. At sixteen I fell headoverheels for a ragged, perpetually drunk pianist named Arthur. He whispered that I was his muse while I melted in his arms like wax. It was my first experience with a man.
My mother once visited him and asked two blunt questions: Does he ever sober up, and how will we survive? When Arthur had a solid plan, she said she might consider supporting our relationshipprovided he took responsibility for my upkeep, as a single flat was far too little to signal serious intent.
Arthur was five years younger than Blythe and twentyfive years older than me. She didnt mind the age gap. I wont recount his answers here, but Ive never felt more ashamed in front of Mum, especially when she said, I thought you were smarter.
That love story ended awkwardly, though never reached prison for either Arthur or DadBlythe intervened just in time.
Years have passed. Freddy and I now have families that cherish love, respect and the willingness to stand up for a wronged loved one. Those values were instilled by Blythe. No woman could have done more for us. Dad is happy, wellkept and loved.
When Blythes own tragedy struckher husbands death and the loss of a sonDad never mentioned it to us.
Blythe eventually fell for our Dad and left her husband. Her son had died because of her husbands cruelty, a pain she could never forgive.
We like to think we eased some of her suffering. Her influence on our upbringing has never been diminished. The whole family gathers around her; we never know exactly which slippers to place at her feet, but we cherish and protect her. After all, true mothersno matter the obstacles or the cruel steps of othersnever stumble.
