You Turned Her Against Me

Helen, come here, Ill stick your socks in your rucksack! shouted my sister as her voice echoed through the flat. I, Julia, was in the kitchen, a mug of bitter coffee shaking in my hand, and I barely managed not to blurt out a retort.

Sixteenyearold Tilly appeared obediently at the doorway, tall and gangly, her long arms seeming unsure of where to go.

Love, they promised itll be warm today, she murmured.

Promised! Helen snapped as if the weather forecasters had personally insulted our family. What if it turns cold? What if it rains? You cant look after yourself yet; youll catch something

I sipped the coffee, its acrid taste a small distraction from saying too much. For three years Id watched this domestic drama unfold and still hadnt grown used to it. Tilly could never turn on the washing machine not because she was foolish, but because Mother never let her near any appliances. Youll break it, shed warned. Youll flood the neighbours. The programmes are complicated. The girl didnt take out the rubbish either; Helen feared Tilly might slip on the stairwell or be bitten by the stray dog that roamed the courtyard. And she wasnt allowed to tidy her own room youll just spread the dust, not remove it.

Helen, I finally said, shes sixteen. She can put her socks in her rucksack herself.

Helen shot me a look that could have curdled the milk in the fridge.

Julia, you have no children. You cant understand.

The argument was as old as the hills. I could have retorted that childlessness didnt make me a fool, but I stayed silent. It was useless.

Tilly stood by the door, eyes fixed on the floor, her expression the same as Id seen on rescue dogs submissive, hopeless. It was the most frightening thing of all.

That evening I called Helen.

Lena, could Tilly stay over? I want to rewatch Harry Potter. Shed be bored alone.

Helens voice trembled. 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 you must see her back home afterwards. You never know
The walk from my flat to yours is only forty yards.
Julia!
Alright, alright, Ill see her.

Half an hour later Tilly was perched on the tiny balcony of my flat, legs tucked beneath her. Id dragged a blanket, some cushions, and a string of fairy lights up there. We never got around to turning the film on.

Tilly, could you set the kettle on the hob? The burners broken and the matches are in the cupboard! I asked, waiting for a reply that never came.

Do you know how to use matches? I asked, a suspicion creeping in.

Mother says I mustnt touch them. Besides, we have lighters, she answered.

Mothers not here. Time you learned, I said.

Her first three attempts snapped the matchsticks in half. She pressed too hard, pulled too fast. On the fourth try a little flame sprang to life, and Tilly stared at it with the awe of someone whod just discovered fire.

Its its normal, she stammered. My heart clenched. My sisters overprotectiveness had kept Tilly locked in a cage.

A week later Helen called, panic in her voice.

Can you believe the school is taking the whole class on a threeday camping trip!
What? I switched to speakerphone, still typing a report. Remote work, a looming deadline, and now Helens new disaster.

What if its September? Itll be cold! Therell be drafts, theyll feed us whatever, and she might fall ill!
Shes sixteen, Helen. She has an immune system, a coat, a brain whatever you think she should have.
Thats rich, Helen snapped. I wont let her go.
Did you ask Tilly?
A pause.
Why? Im her mother. I know best.

I closed my laptop. It was pointless to work while the whole flat was buzzing.

You think she shouldnt mix with the other pupils? That she should stay home while they sit round a campfire singing?
Campfires? Helens voice trembled with genuine fear. There will be campfires?

Tilly never went to the camp. I saw her that day, sitting in her room scrolling through strangers stories: classmates posting photos from the coach, making faces, goofing off. Tilly stared at the screen, her face a blank slate.

She turned eighteen in March. I gave her a small rucksack bright orange, cheeky, nothing like the drab bags Helen approved.

Tilly gave a sad smile. In her eyes flickered something I could not name not resentment, not anger, but a deep, weary fatigue, the sort that settles in a person who has long stopped fighting.

In May I rented a cottage in the Yorkshire Dales. A modest, timberframed house with a crooked porch and an apple orchard. The internet was patchy, but it was enough for work.

Id like to take Tilly with me, I told Helen.
She nearly dropped the frying pan.
All summer? To the Dales? There isnt even a proper doctor there!
Helen, theres a healthcentre two minutes away, and the nearest town is a halfhours drive. Not the wilderness.
What if a tick bites? What if she eats poisonous mushrooms? What if
She wont be picking mushrooms, I interrupted patiently. And Ill be there, watching over her. Promise.
It took a week of pleading. I listed fresh air, quiet, a break from the citys clamor. Helen countered with lack of a decent pharmacy, untested well water, village dogs. Tilly said nothing. Shed long stopped being a participant in decisions about her own life.

Fine, Helen finally gave in. But call every day. Photograph everything she eats. If her temperature spikes, bring her straight home!
The list filled three pages in my notebook. I nodded, wrote it down, then tossed the notebook into the bin.

The cottage greeted us with the scent of dry herbs and old timber. Tilly stood in the yard, head thrown back, looking at the sky a vast, blue expanse, unmarred by any tower.

Its empty here, she whispered.
Free, I corrected. Can you put the kettle on yourself? The stove is gas; youll manage, wont you?
She went pale.
Yes!

The first week I taught her the basics: loading the ancient washing machine that rattled like an aircraft taking off, folding laundry, cooking simple meals. She burned the bacon, left the tap running, washed a white shirt with red socks. Yet with each mishap a new spark lit in her eyes not despair but curiosity, a desire to try again.

I made rice myself! she declared one morning, marching into my kitchen with a pot.
The rice was overcooked, clumped together, but Tilly beamed as if shed just won a medal.
Congratulations, I replied dryly. Now you could survive an apocalypse.
She laughed, a genuine, loud laugh, head thrown back. I could not recall the last time Id heard such sound.

The village had about twenty souls mostly retirees and a few families who came for the summer. Mrs. Zinn, an old neighbour, took Tilly under her wing and taught her to milk a goat. Young Tom, Tillys age, took her fishing. I watched Tilly learn to speak to people without hiding behind her mothers shadow, to meet eyes, to joke.

Midsummer I allowed her to walk to the shop alone a mileandahalf on the dusty lane past a field of sunflowers.
What if I get lost? she asked, curiosity outweighing fear.
Theres only one road. You cant get lost, even if you try.
She returned an hour later with bread, milk, and a wide grin.
I made it, she said.
Remarkable, I scoffed, then pulled her into a tight hug.

Three months sped by. Tilly could now cook five dishes, wash, iron, budget a weeks expenses. She went swimming with the village lads, helped Mrs. Zinn weed the garden, read on the porch until dark. I saw a completely different person not the vacanteyed girl anymore.

Returning home was hard. Helen opened the front door, staring at her as if Tilly had returned from another planet.
Tilly? she asked, disbelief in her voice. You look tanned.
And I can make borscht, Tilly added. Want me to cook it for you?
Helens eyes widened.
Borscht? You? Julia, what have you done to her?

The weeks that followed turned into a battle. Tilly decided she needed work. She sent out CVs, attended interviews, answered recruiters calls. Helen paced the flat, clutching her chest, then her phone.
You dont need a job! I earn enough!
I need to, Mum, Tilly said quietly, but firmly. I want to be an adult.
Youre still a child!
Im eighteen.
She found a job as an assistant in a small café near the house. Not much, but it was a first step onto her own path.

From her first wages she began to save. Three months later she sat at my kitchen table scrolling through rental listings.
That one looks decent, she pointed at the screen. A onebed flat, close to work, cheap.
Your mother will be furious, I warned.
I know.
Shell curse me, I tried to smile.
I know that too, Tilly lifted her gaze, determination finally shining in them. But I cant live like this any longer, Aunt Julia. She still checks whether Ive switched off the bathroom light. Im eighteen and Im tired of reporting the hour I went to bed.
I nodded.
Then lets go see it.

Helens shrieks echoed through the flat for days. I let her vent, not interrupting.
You set this up! You! All summer you filled her head with nonsense! You broke my family!
Helen, I waited for the 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 overprotecting! You locked Tilly inside these walls because you feared something could happen.
Helen sank into a chair, her face turning ashen.
Shes my daughter, she whispered.
Shes an adult now. She wants to see what lies beyond your fears.

Tilly moved in early December. The flat was tiny, lowceilinged, floorboards creaking, but she darted about, arranging furniture with the excitement of someone moving into a palace.

Look, she flung open 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 onceclumsy, inexperienced, wonderful girl finally breathed freely.

Thank you, she said that evening over tea in her new kitchen. For the matches. For the village. For everything.
I did nothing special, I replied.
You set me free, she smiled.
I reached out and squeezed her hand.