All my life, I’ve lived in a quiet village just outside Bristol. For me, the land isn’t just dirt—it’s my escape. It heals me, keeps me going when everything else feels like it’s falling apart. When my hands are in the soil and my back aches from bending over, my mind finally rests. That’s how I’ve always lived. Spring is for planting. Summer is weeds and heat. Autumn is harvests, preserves, freezers packed tight with jars of pickles, jams, and chutneys.
I’ve got a big plot. Every year, I grow tomatoes, cucumbers, aubergines, courgettes, peppers, and sweetcorn. The fruit trees give me apples, plums, and cherries. I turn them into something lasting—tomato relish, spiced chutney, courgette spread, jams, compotes, pickled veg. There’s an entire freezer chest just for them, stacked neat with vegetable mixes, purees for my grandson, home-cut chips. Everything has its place. Because I do it for love. Because I know when winter comes, it’ll warm them.
My children are grown now, scattered across the country. But when they visit, they never leave empty-handed. Cars packed with crates, boxes, bags. I don’t mind—they’re family. It’s all for them.
Especially Emily, my youngest son Oliver’s wife. She never stops praising my pickles, the aubergine dips, the apricot jam. Even takes jars for my grandson’s nursery mates. I see how much she enjoys it, and I won’t lie—it makes me happy. I put in the work, staying up late, following every recipe to the letter. And she appreciates it. What more could I want?
But at my grandson’s birthday party, I realised things weren’t as simple as I’d thought. The party was lovely—clowns, kids shrieking with delight, adults gathered round the buffet. Among the sandwiches and crisps were my pickles, courgette spread, apricot compote. People ate, complimented. I was pleased—until one woman said, “Oh, these are those famous pickles! I get them from Emily all the time!”
At first, I thought nothing of it. Maybe she visited often. Then another thanked me for the apricot jam. Later, a third mentioned how my courgette spread kept her kids fed all winter.
I looked for Emily. She wouldn’t meet my eye. The next morning, when we were alone, I asked her outright:
“Emily, are you giving my preserves away?”
She sighed, stared at her feet.
“A bit. They’re delicious, and people ask. You’ve got so many. I don’t give it all, just a little.”
I didn’t shout. Didn’t scold. But something inside me went hollow. It stung. I’m the one boiling, sealing, checking temperatures—every bit done by my hands. And she hands them out like they’re nothing.
I drove home with a weight in my chest. It’s not the jars I mind. But I don’t do this for strangers. I’m not a shop. I’m a grandmother, a mother, a woman in her sixties. Today, I can fill forty jars. Tomorrow—who knows? What if my health fails? What then, when they’ve grown used to always taking?
Now I’m back in the kitchen, stirring another batch of chutney. Four dozen jars already sealed. And it hits me—maybe it’s time to change. My daughter’s always told me to sell them. I’ve brushed her off. “I don’t make them for profit.” But perhaps she’s right. If I don’t set my own boundaries, others will decide for me.
I won’t stop sharing with family. But now, it’ll be honest. Not for them to pass on, but to truly value. To remember every jar isn’t just “tasty”—it’s sleepless nights, sore hands, care. And maybe, just once, someone might think, “How’s Mum doing? Does she have enough help? Maybe we should do more than just take.”
