All my life, I’ve lived in a village near York. Ever since I was a child, the land has been more than just work to me—it’s my solace. It heals. It gives me strength when everything else feels like it’s falling apart. When my hands are in the soil and my back aches from hard work, my mind finds peace. That’s how I’ve always lived. Spring is for planting. Summer means battling weeds under the sun. Autumn brings the harvest, preserves, freezers packed with jars of homemade goodness—chutneys, pickles, jams.
I have a large plot. Every year, I grow tomatoes, cucumbers, aubergines, courgettes, sweetcorn, and peppers. Fruit trees—apples, plums, cherries. From these, I make everything: relishes, chutneys, courgette spreads, jams, cordials, pickled vegetables. My chest freezer is neatly packed with vegetable mixes, homemade chips, and purees for my grandson.
My children are grown now, living their own lives. But when they visit, they never leave empty-handed. Their cars are loaded with boxes, bags, tins. I don’t mind—they’re family. It’s all for them.
Especially Harriet, my youngest son Oliver’s wife. She always raves about my preserves—the pickles, the aubergine relish, the apricot jam. She even takes little jars for my grandson’s school lunches. It makes me happy to see her enjoy them. After all, I stay up late, carefully following recipes, sealing each jar with care—and seeing her appreciation feels worth it.
Then, at my grandson’s birthday party, I realised something wasn’t right. The party was wonderful—children laughing, balloons, a long table full of food. Among the dishes were my pickles, courgette spread, apricot cordial.
People ate and complimented. Then one woman said, “Oh, these pickles! Harriet always brings them—they’re yours, aren’t they? Absolutely brilliant, nothing like the shop-bought stuff.”
At first, I thought nothing of it. Maybe she visited often. But then another thanked me for the jam. Later, a third mentioned feeding her children my courgette spread all winter.
I looked for Harriet. She avoided my gaze.
The next morning, when we were alone, I asked her outright:
“Harriet, are you giving my preserves away?”
She sighed, eyes down. “Just a bit. They’re so lovely, people ask. And you have so many. Not all of them, just a few.”
I didn’t shout. Didn’t argue. But inside, I felt hollow. It stung. I spend nights stirring, sealing, checking temperatures—all by hand. And she gives them away as if they were nothing.
On the way home, my heart was heavy. It’s not about being stingy—but these weren’t meant for strangers. I’m not a shop. I’m a grandmother, a mother, a woman in her sixties. Today, I can seal forty jars. Tomorrow—who knows?
Now, standing in the kitchen, stirring another pot of chutney, it hits me. Maybe it’s time for a change. My daughter’s been saying for years—sell them. I’ve always refused. But perhaps she’s right. If I don’t set my own boundaries, others will decide for me.
I won’t stop sharing with my family. But now, it’ll be honest. No more passing them off as favours. Let them understand that every jar isn’t just “nice”—it’s sleepless nights, care, love. Maybe then, just once, someone might think: “How is Mum holding up? Does she have enough help? Should we step in instead of just taking?”
Because kindness, when taken for granted, fades—unless you learn to guard what truly matters.
