**Bitter Tomatoes: How Preserves Ruined Family Ties**
Emily Winters, exhausted after a long day, meant to call her neighbour but never got the chance. The moment she picked up her phone with trembling hands, it rang sharply, as if warning of an approaching storm. It was Margaret—her late husband’s sister, a woman whose calls always brought unease. *Has something happened?* The thought flashed through Emily’s mind. Margaret rarely called, and when she did, it struck like lightning.
Hesitating, Emily pressed answer.
*”Emily, what are you even doing?!”* Margaret snapped, skipping any greeting. *”I’ve called you six times!”*
*”I hadn’t reached the phone yet…”* Emily replied softly, the weight of fatigue pressing down on her shoulders.
*”Of course not!”* Margaret laughed, though her tone dripped with mockery. *”Anyway, listen—your tomatoes this year are nothing but salt! You need a new recipe—less vinegar, maybe some sugar—”*
*”There won’t be any more salt,”* Emily cut in, her voice icy. *”No vinegar. No sugar. Nothing.”*
*”What do you mean—nothing?!”* Margaret faltered, baffled. *”Are you angry with me?”*
—
Nine months earlier
Emily had often thought of downsizing her garden in the quiet village of Willowbrook, but every spring, the cycle repeated: seedlings, beds, seeds—an endless loop she couldn’t escape. The cellar still held jars of last year’s preserves, untouched by her children or distant relatives.
Her late husband, George, used to help—digging, watering, harvesting. But after his passing two years ago, Emily fought the garden and endless visitors alone. George’s relatives visited often—to pay respects at his grave, chat, and always leave with bags of homegrown treats. Margaret, especially, arrived with demands and critiques.
Emily’s children visited rarely but helped with the potatoes. She handled the rest, guarding her tomatoes and cucumbers from meddling hands. When her daughter-in-law once weeded so carelessly the carrots withered, Emily banned everyone from the beds—except at harvest time.
*”Mum, why grow so much?”* her son Paul asked. *”You slave over this garden, then give it all away. Look at our neighbour Vera—she only grows flowers and fruit trees. Even sells them! You could do the same instead of handing out freebies.”*
*”And what will you eat without my preserves?”* Emily argued, though her voice wavered.
*”We barely take any,”* her daughter-in-law Sophie said. *”Aunt Margaret hauls off jars for half her family. She’s never satisfied! It’s time you lived for yourself, not them.”*
*”I suppose…”* Emily began, but Paul interrupted.
*”No more ‘I suppose’! You deserve a break.”*
Emily pulled out old seed packets, pondering. Tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, herbs—everything was stocked. Maybe try a new tomato variety? Then she stopped. The children were right. Why bother? She decided to plant only herbs. Preserves? Just a few jars—for herself.
She considered flowers but knew nothing about them. Before she could call Vera for advice, the phone rang—Margaret again.
*”Something’s happened?”* Emily thought, her chest tightening.
Margaret rarely called, and never without requests. Even holidays went unmentioned. Strange she’d call in winter—her visits usually started in summer, near harvest.
The ringing stopped, then instantly resumed. Emily answered.
*”Emily, where have you been?! I’ve been calling for half an hour!”* Margaret scolded. *”What’s there to do in winter but rest?”*
*”I was busy—”* Emily started, but Margaret steamrolled on.
*”Never mind. About your tomatoes—they’re inedible with all that salt! You need a new recipe, less vinegar—”*
*”No more salt. No vinegar. No sugar,”* Emily said flatly. *”I’m done, Margaret.”*
*”Done?!”* Margaret sputtered. *”Are you seriously upset?”*
*”No. Just tired. It’s time I lived for myself. The children—”*
*”They should help more!”* Margaret interrupted.
*”They *do* help,”* Emily said calmly. *”But when did you ever ask about my health? The doctor said no sugar, no salt. So there won’t be any preserves.”*
*”That’s fine, but don’t forget about us!”* Margaret pressed. *”How’s the seedling prep? Started yet?”*
*”Growing fine,”* Emily lied, smirking inwardly. The seedlings didn’t exist—and never would. Five tomato plants, just for her.
After hanging up, she rang Vera.
*”Come over,”* she said. *”Tea’s on. I’m bored alone.”*
Over tea, they discussed summer plans.
*”I’d like flowers, but I don’t know the first thing,”* Emily admitted. *”You even sell yours—must be easier.”*
*”They need care too,”* Vera smiled. *”But no pickling required! I sell potted plants—my granddaughter helps online. The market’s dull alone. Wish you’d join me, but you’re too busy with your jars.”*
*”No more jars,”* Emily sighed. *”The family cleared me out. And I won’t make more. I’m exhausted. And now I get lectures on too much salt—”*
*”I only kept preserves for my kids,”* Vera said. *”If others want veg, they can dig themselves. But mine live far off—so I garden for me. No greenhouses, no stress. Just two hens for eggs. You’ve got a whole flock!”*
*”That’s right—the hens!”* Emily brightened. *”I’ll sell most, keep a pair like yours. Fresh eggs, nothing more.”*
*”Good for you!”* Vera grinned. *”Now, about the market—fancy joining me? You sell herbs, I’ll do flowers. Fun, and less backache.”*
*”Deal!”* Emily smiled.
When Paul and Sophie arrived to plant potatoes, they gaped at the changes. The greenhouse overflowed with emerald herbs.
*”Mum, since when are you an herb farmer?”* Paul laughed.
*”Herbs sell well,”* Emily said. *”Vera does flowers, I’ll do parsley, chives, dill. Second batch’s nearly ready.”*
*”And next year—back to tomatoes and endless guests?”* Sophie teased.
*”Not a chance!”* Emily said firmly. *”Only for us. No more jars. Vera suggested perennials—less work, prettier. Haven’t bought any yet.”*
*”We’ll get them!”* Sophie promised. *”And we’ll build a gazebo—tea outside, just you and Vera chatting.”*
*”A nice one?”* Emily asked hopefully.
*”The nicest!”* Sophie assured. *”I’m a designer—I’ll handle it. And I’ll plan the flower beds.”*
*”Well then, get to it,”* Paul grinned. *”We’ll plant the potatoes.”*
*”Mum, I’m glad you’re finally putting yourself first,”* he added. *”No more slaving for Aunt Margaret’s horde. Let them dig their own if they want.”*
*”It feels… awkward,”* Emily sighed. *”I warned her, but she didn’t listen.”*
*”Her problem, not yours,”* Paul dismissed.
Margaret and her husband arrived in late August. The potatoes had been dug early—the dry summer meant an early harvest. Emily’s children had stored them in the cellar. The greenhouse flourished with herbs; radishes peeked from neat beds. Everything—just enough.
*”Where’s the rest?”* Margaret blinked, scanning the yard. *”Harvested already?”*
*”Just the potatoes,”* Emily said.
*”Why the flowers? Herbs in the greenhouse?”* Margaret probed.
*”Herbs sell. Flowers are for me—less work, more beauty.”*
*”I see…”* Margaret said slowly, disapproval seeping in. *”Your kids did well. Hope you took my salt advice?”*
*”I did. No salt. No jam either.”*
*”Where are the berries?”* Margaret frowned.
*”Some frozen, some sold. I don’t need much.”*
*”You’re joking?!”* Margaret’s voice rose. *”What about us?”*
*”Should’ve come picked them,”* Emily shrugged.
*”How dare you?!”* Margaret exploded. *”This was George’s family home! The bushes, the trees—all from his father! Who are you to claim it?”*
*”George and I replanted most,”* Emily said coolly. *”The old apple tree’s sour. And the house? You sold us*”You sold your share to us years ago—willingly,”* Emily said, her voice steady as Margaret’s face turned crimson, and with a final glare, she spun on her heel and marched away, leaving the quiet garden—and Emily’s newfound peace—untouched at last.
