**Bitter Tomatoes: How Preserves Shattered Family Ties**
Eleanor Whitmore, exhausted after a long day, meant to call her neighbor but never got the chance. Just as she picked up the phone with trembling hands, it erupted in a shrill ring, as if foretelling trouble. It was Maureen—her late husband’s sister, a woman whose calls always brought unease. *Has something happened?* The thought flickered in Eleanor’s mind. Maureen rarely rang, and when she did, it was like a bolt from the blue.
Eleanor hesitated before answering.
“Ellie, what are you doing?!” Maureen barked, skipping any greeting. “I’ve called you six times!”
“I wasn’t near the phone,” Eleanor replied softly, weariness weighing heavy on her shoulders.
“Of course not!” Maureen laughed, but the sound was mocking. “Anyway, your tomatoes this year—nothing but salt! You need to try a different recipe—”
“There won’t be any more salt,” Eleanor cut in sharply, steel in her voice. “No more tomatoes. No more preserves. Nothing.”
“What do you mean—nothing?” Maureen sputtered, confusion making her voice waver. “Are you cross with me?”
—
Nine months earlier
Reading time: 5 minutes
Source: Village Gossip
How often had Eleanor, living in the quiet hamlet of Wellingford, dreamed of downsizing her garden? Yet every spring, it started anew—seedlings, rows, planting—an endless cycle she couldn’t escape. In the cellar, jars of last year’s preserves gathered dust, untouched by her children or her many relatives.
Her late husband, George, had once helped with everything—digging, watering, harvesting. But two years ago, he was gone, leaving Eleanor alone against the garden and the endless stream of visitors. George’s family came often—to visit his grave, chat, and, of course, fill their bags with homemade treats. Maureen, her sister-in-law, was the worst, always demanding and critical.
Her children visited less but helped with the potatoes. The rest Eleanor did herself, especially tending her prized tomatoes and cucumbers, trusting no one else. After her daughter-in-law once weeded so carelessly the carrots withered, Eleanor barred anyone from the beds—except at harvest.
“Mum, why do you grow so much?” her son Paul asked. “You slave over this garden just to give it all away. Look at Vicky next door—she only grows flowers and fruit trees. She even sells them! You could sell your veg instead of handing it out.”
“But what will you do without my preserves?” Eleanor protested, though doubt crept into her voice.
“We don’t need much—we can buy from the shop,” her daughter-in-law Sophie said. “Aunt Maureen takes half your stock for her whole clan. Enough’s enough—it’s time to live for yourself.”
“But—” Eleanor began.
“No more ‘buts’!” Paul interrupted. “You deserve a rest!”
Eleanor stared at her seed packets, hesitating. Tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers—she had plenty. Maybe try a new variety? Then she stopped. The children were right. Why bother? She resolved to plant only herbs this year. Preserves? Just a few jars, for herself.
She considered asking Vicky about flowers but never got the chance—the phone rang again. Maureen.
*What now?* Eleanor’s stomach knotted with dread.
Maureen rarely called unless she wanted something—even holidays went unacknowledged. Odd that she’d ring in winter; her visits usually began in summer, near harvest.
The phone fell silent, then rang once more. Eleanor answered.
“Ellie, where have you been?!” Maureen snapped. “I’ve been calling forever! You’ve nothing to do in winter—just sit about!”
“I was busy—” Eleanor started, but Maureen bulldozed on.
“Never mind. About your tomatoes—far too salty! You need to tweak the recipe. And the vinegar—”
“There’ll be no more salt. No vinegar. No sugar,” Eleanor said coldly. “It’s over, Maureen.”
“What—over?!” Maureen spluttered. “Are you angry with me?”
“No. Just tired. Time I lived for myself. The children—”
“Make *them* help, then!” Maureen cut in.
“They *do* help,” Eleanor said calmly. “But have you ever asked after my health? The doctor says no more salt or sugar.”
“Fine, but don’t forget us!” Maureen pushed. “How’s your greenhouse? Started planting?”
“It’s growing,” Eleanor said shortly—though inwardly, she smiled. No seedlings this year. Five tomato plants, tops. Just for her.
After hanging up, she rang Vicky.
“Come over,” she said. “Tea’s on. Too quiet here alone.”
Over tea, they talked of summer plans.
“I want to grow flowers,” Eleanor admitted. “But I don’t know the first thing.”
“They need tending too,” Vicky said, smiling. “But no pickling required. I sell mine in pots—my granddaughter helps online. The market’s lonely, though. You’d hate it. Too much hauling for you with your preserves.”
“Hardly any left,” Eleanor sighed. “Relatives cleared me out. And I’m done with it. Tired of being told my pickles are too salty.”
“I refused everyone but my kids,” Vicky said. “Want veg? Here’s a spade. But mine live far off. I grow for myself. Two hens are plenty. You’ve a whole flock!”
“That’s it—I’ll sell most!” Eleanor brightened. “Fresh eggs, nothing more.”
“Good for you, Ellie!” Vicky beamed. “Fancy the market with me? You sell herbs, I’ll do flowers—company, not chores.”
“Deal!” Eleanor grinned.
When Paul and Sophie arrived to plant potatoes, they gasped. The greenhouse was an emerald carpet of herbs.
“Mum, have you switched to farming parsley?” Paul laughed.
“Herbs sell well,” Eleanor said. “Vicky does flowers; I’ll do mint, chives, basil. Second batch nearly ready.”
“Then it’s back to tomatoes, jars, and guests?” Sophie teased.
“Not a chance!” Eleanor said firmly. “Just for us. No more preserves. Vicky suggested perennials—easier, prettier. Haven’t bought any yet.”
“We’ll get them!” Sophie promised. “And build you a gazebo—tea under the roses. You and Vicky can lounge.”
“A pretty one?” Eleanor asked hopefully.
“The prettiest!” Sophie vowed. “I’m a designer—leave it to me. I’ll plan the flowerbeds too.”
“Right, then,” Paul said. “We’ll plant the spuds.”
“Glad you finally stopped slaving for Aunt Maureen’s lot,” he added. “Let *them* dig if they’re so keen.”
“Feels wrong somehow,” Eleanor sighed. “I warned her, but she didn’t listen.”
“Tough,” Paul shrugged. “Her problem.”
Maureen and her husband arrived in late August. The potatoes—harvested early due to drought—were already stored. The greenhouse brimmed with herbs; radishes peeked from the soil. Just enough, nothing extra.
“Bit bare, isn’t it?” Maureen said, scanning the garden. “Harvest over?”
“Just the potatoes,” Eleanor said.
“Why the flowers? And herbs in the greenhouse?” Maureen pressed.
“Herbs sell. Flowers cheer me up. Less work, more beauty.”
“I see,” Maureen said thinly. “Paul and Sophie did well. Hope you recalled my advice about salt?”
“I did. No more salt. Or jam.”
“But where are the berries?” Maureen frowned.
“Froze some, sold the rest. I don’t need much.”
“You’re joking!” Maureen’s temper flared. “What about *us*?”
“You should’ve come to pick them,” Eleanor said mildly.
“How *dare* you?!” Maureen exploded. “This house was *George’s*! The hedges, the trees—all from his father! Who are *you* to keep it all?”
“George and I replanted everything,” Eleanor said. “Only the old crab apple’s left, and it’s sour. And the house? *You* sold your share. We didn’t ask—you offered. Now it’s mine. Less veg, no preserves. I don’t need much, and the kids’ flats have no space.”
“This is shameful!” Maureen ranted. “We drive miles, and you won’t even lift a spade!”
“You can borrow the spade,” Eleanor said drily. “But I won’t dig.”
“Aunt Maureen, what of your own garden?” Paul cut in. “You bought it after selling your share here.”
“Clever clogs!” Maureen snapped.
“Dad paid extra when you fell short,” Paul said coolly. “We went without bikes because of it. Then you quarreled, tried to claw your share back—for free. Odd you still come begging. No one owes you anything.”
“Cheeky boy!” Maureen seethed. “Eleanor watched their car disappear down the lane, feeling lighter than she had in years, and turned back to her garden with a quiet smile.
