**Bitter Tomatoes: How Preserves Tore a Family Apart**
Margaret Whitmore, weary after a long day, reached for her phone to call her neighbour but was interrupted by its sharp, jarring ring. It was Laura—her late husband’s sister—a woman whose calls always carried an air of impending trouble. “What now?” Margaret thought, her stomach tightening. Laura rarely phoned, and when she did, it was never good news.
With a hesitant sigh, Margaret answered.
“Meg, what on earth are doing? I’ve called six times!” Laura snapped, skipping pleasantries altogether.
“I didn’t hear it,” Margaret replied softly, exhaustion pressing down on her shoulders.
“Oh, of course not!” Laura scoffed, her laughter laced with mockery. “Anyway, I rang about your tomatoes this year—far too salty! You really ought to try a different recipe—”
“There won’t be any more salt,” Margaret cut in, her voice hardening like tempered steel. “Or tomatoes. Or preserves. Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?!” Laura spluttered. “Are you cross with me?”
Nine months earlier
For years, Margaret, living in the quiet village of Willowbrook, had dreamed of downsizing her garden. Yet every spring, the cycle resumed—seedlings, rows of vegetables, endless labour. Jars of last year’s preserves gathered dust in the pantry, untouched by her children or relatives.
Her late husband, Geoffrey, had once shared the work—digging, watering, harvesting. But two years ago, he passed, leaving Margaret alone to face the garden and the relentless stream of visitors. Geoffrey’s relatives arrived often—ostensibly to visit his grave but never leaving without bags of homemade jams and pickles. Laura was the worst—always demanding, always critical.
Her own children visited less often, though they helped with the potatoes. The rest she tended alone, especially her tomatoes and cucumbers, trusting no one after her daughter-in-law once weeded the carrots into oblivion. Only at harvest did she allow help.
“Mum, why do you grow so much?” her son, Paul, had asked. “You bend over that garden like a servant, then give it all away. Look at our neighbour, Evelyn—just flowers and a small orchard. She even sells her blooms! You could sell your veg instead of handing it out.”
“And what would you all do without my preserves?” Margaret countered, though doubt crept into her voice.
“We only need a couple of jars,” her daughter-in-law, Sophie, replied. “Aunt Laura takes enough for half her family. Nothing’s ever enough for her. It’s time you lived for yourself, not them.”
Margaret sighed, pulling out old seed packets. Tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, herbs—she had everything. Maybe buy a new tomato variety or some dill? Then she stopped. The children were right—what was the point? She decided: no more preserves except a few jars for herself.
She considered flowers but knew nothing about them. She meant to ask Evelyn for advice, but before she could dial, Laura called again.
“Something wrong?” Margaret muttered, her pulse quickening.
Laura rarely rang in winter—her visits usually began in summer, nearing harvest.
“Meg, where have you been? I’ve been calling for half an hour! You’ve nothing to do in winter—just sitting about!”
“I was busy,” Margaret began, but Laura steamrolled on.
“Never mind. Those tomatoes of yours—so salty they’re inedible! You need less salt, maybe swap the vinegar—”
“No more salt. No vinegar. No sugar,” Margaret stated coldly. “I’m done, Laura. I want to rest. The children have been telling me—”
“Well, they should help you, then!” Laura interrupted.
“They do. Unlike you, they’ve asked after my health. Doctor says my sugar’s high—so no more preserves.”
“That’s all very well, but don’t forget about us! How’s the planting coming?”
“Coming along,” Margaret lied. This year, there’d be five tomato plants—just for her.
After hanging up, she called Evelyn.
“Come over for tea,” she said. “I’m tired of my own company.”
Over tea, they chatted.
“I want to grow flowers, but I don’t know the first thing,” Margaret admitted.
“Flowers need tending too,” Evelyn smiled. “But they’re not tomatoes—no pickling required. I sell potted ones—my granddaughter helps online. The market’s lonely, though. You should join me!”
“I’ve barely any jars left—everyone took them,” Margaret sighed. “I won’t do preserves anymore. I’m tired of being lectured about salt.”
“I refused everyone but my children,” Evelyn said. “Want vegetables? Here’s a spade. But mine live far away. I grow for myself. No greenhouse—I can leave anytime. Just a couple of chickens. You’ve got far too many!”
“That’s right—the chickens!” Margaret brightened. “I’ll sell most, keep two like yours. Fresh eggs are enough.”
“Well done, Meg!” Evelyn laughed. “So, market with me this summer?”
“Deal.”
When Paul and Sophie arrived to plant potatoes, they gasped at the changes. The greenhouse brimmed with herbs—emerald and fragrant.
“Mum, have you gone professional with parsley?” Paul teased.
“Herbs sell well,” Margaret said. “Evelyn does flowers; I’ll do these.”
“And next year—back to tomatoes, jars, and guests?” Sophie prodded.
“No chance!” Margaret said firmly. “Just for us. No more preserves. Evelyn suggested perennials—less work, more beauty.”
“We’ll buy you some!” Sophie promised. “And build a proper shed—tea in the afternoons, just relaxing.”
“A nice one?”
“The nicest! I’ll design it. And I’ll plan the flowers, too.”
Paul grinned. “Right, then—potatoes first.”
“Mum, I’m glad you’re finally putting yourself first,” he added. “Aunt Laura’s had it too good for too long.”
“I did warn her,” Margaret murmured.
“She’ll manage.”
Laura arrived in late August. The potatoes were already stored—summer had been dry, rain was forecast. The greenhouse flourished with herbs, a few radishes peeked from the earth. Small, neat, enough.
“Bit empty here,” Laura said, frowning. “Harvest over?”
“Mostly,” Margaret replied.
“Flowers? Herbs? What’s all this?”
“Herbs sell. Flowers are for joy. Easier than preserves.”
“I see,” Laura said stiffly. “Paul’s done well. Hope you took my advice on the salt?”
“I did. No more salt. Or jam.”
“Where are the berries, then?”
“Froze a few, sold the rest.”
“You’re joking!” Laura’s voice rose. “What about us?”
“You could’ve picked your own.”
“How dare you? This land was ours—mine and Geoffrey’s! The bushes, the trees—all from Dad. Who do you think you are?”
“We replanted most,” Margaret said calmly. “Only the old crabapple’s left. And the house? You sold us your share—we didn’t ask. It’s mine now. No more jars. My children have no storage in the city.”
“Do you know how selfish this looks?” Laura snapped. “We drive miles, and you won’t even lift a spade?”
“You can borrow one. But I won’t dig.”
“Aunt Laura,” Paul cut in, “what about your own garden? You bought it after selling here.”
“You’ve a sharp memory!”
“Hard to forget—Dad topped up your payment. We went without bikes that year. Then you fought, tried to take the share back. For free. Odd you still come for food. Nobody owes you anything.”
“You cheeky boy!” Laura seethed. “Meg, we’ll visit the grave. Pack us some jars—herbs, whatever.”
“Nothing to pack,” Margaret said. “Herbs, if you like.”
Laura slammed the car door, her husband muttering about ruined moods. They left empty-handed.
“That’s that, Mum,” Paul said. “She won’t bother you again.”
“Pie’s ready!” Sophie called. “Tea’s on. Gone already?”
“Too busy,” Paul smirked.
Margaret embraced her new life. She and Evelyn became close, even holidaying together—her children covering the costs and looking after the houses. For the first time, Margaret lived for herself.
**The lesson? Time spent on others should never cost your own peace.**
