13October2025
Dear Diary,
I never imagined a simple request for tomatoes could turn my new car into a battlefield, but here we are. Today the sun was bright, reflecting off the polished silver Audi Q3 Id saved for three years by skipping holidays, turning down bonuses, and even selling my old coat. It was my first proper vehicle, paid for outright, not on finance and certainly not with Mums help. The cabin is a pale, buttery beige, almost like fresh creamexactly the sort of immaculate interior Id dreamed of.
Emily stood beside me, her hand trailing over the steering wheels freshlyleathered surface. James, why are you being so stubborn? Its just tomatoes, she muttered, trying to sound calm while her eyes flickered with irritation. Shed been looking forward to a quiet drive home after work, not a lesson in how to transport a mothers garden supplies.
Mums seedlings are in those old milkcarton boxes, soaked with soil and water. Theyll ruin the carpet, she said, the words spilling out as the cars doors clicked shut. I wont load them.
Come on, love, I pleaded, Mum packed everything carefully. Well line the boot with newspapers, put the boxes in, and itll be fine. Its not worth calling a removal van for ten small crates. I tried to sound reasonable, reminding her that Margaret, my mother, treats those seedlings like her own children. Shes been tending to them since February, whispering encouragement to each sprout.
Emily slammed the drivers side door a little too hard, the light catching the gleam on the bonnet. Ten crates? she repeated, eyebrows raised. Last weekend you only mentioned a couple of boxes. Where did ten come from?
Besides the tomatoes there are peppers, aubergines, a few petunias. And the cars generator is on the fritz, you know that its in the garage for weeks. If we dont get them to the allotment today Mum will have a fit, she says the seedlings will wilt and die. Shell make a scene thatll last a month.
The scene will be me staining my new boot, Emily shot back. Just order a taxi, a VanGo or any small lorry. Ill even pay.
You dont get it, I lowered my voice, glancing toward the upstairs flat where Mum lives. She wont trust a taxi driver. Shell think hell toss the boxes around, break the roots. She wants us, us, to do it with love, you know?
Emily looked at me, thirtyeight now, but I felt like a schoolboy cowering before his mothers wrath. Fine, she sighed, but on one condition: everything stays in the boot. No pots on the seats. Ill check each box to make sure the bottom is dry. Understood?
Understood! Youre brilliant! I kissed her cheek and hurried to the driveway.
I returned moments later carrying a huge, waterlogged cardboard box from the supermarket, its contents a tangle of long, limp tomato stems bound with bits of rag. Behind me came Margaret, clutching two plastic buckets brimming with leafy greens. Careful, James, dont tilt it! she warned, her voice a mix of command and affection. These are Bullheart tomatoes, the best in the county. Emily, love, open the boot I see your husbands hands are tied up!
Emily pressed the key fob; the boot lid rose with a soft sigh. She pointed at the damp box. See? The bottoms wet.
Dont be ridiculous! Mum waved a hand dismissively, setting the buckets on the pavement. I gave them a little water this morning so they dont dry out in the heat. Its a scorcher today!
I hoisted the box into the boot. Instantly a dark spot of moisture spread across the brandnew carpet Id bought separately to protect the interior. Stop! Emily shouted. James, get it out!
Its just a drop, she muttered, Itll dry, you can shake it off. A cars for carrying things, not for caring about a few specks of mud. We used a Lada back in the day to haul manure, potatoes, anything.
Margaret, this isnt a Lada, Emily replied, trying to keep her composure. And I wont be hauling manure in my car. James, get the box out. We need a sheet of heavyduty cling film. Do we have any?
What film? I asked, bewildered. I thought wed use newspapers
Newspapers will soak in a minute! We need something solid, like a tarpaulin, she snapped. Do we have one?
None at all, Mum said, pouting. Ill fetch the old shower curtain from the shed. Marry, dont be difficult. Well line it nicely, it wont leak any more.
At that moment Mrs. Vera, the neighbour from the next house, popped her head out, holding a tiny terrier. Oh, Margaret! Off to the allotment, are we? And is that your new daughterinlaw? Fancy motor, love!
Yes, Vera, were trying to get the seedlings to the garden. The cars new, but mums being a bit particular, Emily replied, her tone flat.
Dont waste your money on a new car if youre going to load it with mud, Vera chuckled. Well see how that works out.
Emily, teeth clenched, said, James, fetch a roll of cling film from the builders yard on the corner.
Itll cost a few quid, Mum protested, I have an old bathroom curtain I can bring instead.
While Margaret disappeared to fetch the curtain, I shifted uneasily from foot to foot. Emily, just hold on. Well line the boot and be off. Its only a fortyminute drive.
I see ten boxes, Vera, I said, gesturing toward the driveway where a small mountain of cardboard, jars, and bundles waited. That wont fit in the boot.
We could put some in the rear seats, Emily suggested, eyes on the beige carpet.
No, I said firmly. I told her no. The interior is beige for a reason.
Margaret returned with a yellow, rubbery shower curtain. Here, this will do, she said, handing it over. We wrapped the boot floor, trying to keep the wet cardboard from seeping further. In the end we managed to cram five boxes into the boot; the rest stayed on the pavement, along with the buckets and a couple of small spades wrapped in rags.
Now the rest goes in the cabin, Margaret demanded, wiping sweat from her brow.
Emily, the cabins carpet is pristine, I warned. We cant.
Its not possible, she hissed. Either we get a van, or we leave it.
Im calling a van, Margaret snapped. Those lorries will charge an arm, but at least theyll take everything.
Van! I shouted, halflaughing, halfcrying. You cant afford that, Mum.
She lunged for a cardboard box that had been split open, the wet earth spilling onto Jamess fresh white sneakers and onto Emilys lightgrey trousers. The impact was a wet, squelching mess that settled on the cars door sill.
Silence fell over the driveway. Emily stared at the dirt, then at Margaret.
Oh dear Margaret muttered, Thats what happens when you argue. If wed just let the boot stay closed, nothing would have broken!
Emily said nothing more. She shut the car, turned the key, and said, Im heading to the car wash. Call a van yourself if you still want the seedlings moved.
Are you abandoning us? Margaret shrieked, clutching a bucket. You have no conscience!
My car, my rules, Emily replied, voice icy. I offered to pay for a delivery. You refused. Deal with it.
I watched her drive off, the engine humming as she disappeared down the lane. The scene left me feeling both ashamed and strangely relieved. All my life Id been taught to be the good soninlaw, to never upset the elders. My motherinlaws favourite saying, A thin peace is better than a loud quarrel, echoed in my mind, but the mud on my beloved car made me question that wisdom.
At the wash, the young attendant, a cheeky lad with a bright smile, asked, Garden trouble? I sighed, Just the usual, and let him hound the car with foam.
Phones rang nonstop: Mum, me, Emily. I put mine on silent. When Emily finally returned home late, she was grimy, tired, and smelled of earth.
Whats the verdict? she asked, pouring herself a glass of water.
Mum called the van, I said. They arrived in twenty minutes, loaded everything, and took it to the allotment. No drama.
Good, she said, but it wasnt about the tomatoes. It was about respect. You made me feel my car mattered more than my mothers hard work.
She stood firm, Im not apologising for setting boundaries. If she needed a ride to the doctor, Id be first in line. But hauling muddy seedlings in a car I saved for years? Thats absurd.
We sat in silence for a while. Then Jamesmy husbandspoke, Half the seedlings died in the boot, and one box tipped over while we were pulling it out. I think the upholstery will need a professional clean.
Emily closed her eyes. I told you, she whispered.
I know, I replied. Maybe you should call her tomorrow, just to smooth things over? Shes having her birthday next week.
No, she said firmly. I have nothing to apologise for. I defended my limits. If she wants to talk, Im open, but I wont be a mule for her garden waste.
The following fortnight was a quiet cold spell. Margaret didnt call, and I found myself fielding her accusations over the phone, branding me a snake in the grass. Yet each time I slid into the clean, bright interior of my car, I felt Id made the right choice.
On Saturday, James asked, Are you going to the allotment? The strawberries are ready, and Mum seemed a bit calmer.
Ill go, but in my own car, I answered. If anyone tries to make me carry rubbish or manure again, Ill turn the wheel and drive off.
Deal, he said with a crooked grin. No more soil.
At the allotment, Margaret was busy among the rows. She straightened up when she saw me, brushed the dirt from her hands, and offered a tentative smile.
Hello, Margaret, I said.
She eyed my car, parked beside the gate, and remarked, Vera says your car looks like a joke to the chickens.
I like it, I replied, chuckling.
After a brief, awkward tea, she handed me a bag of fresh herbs, neatly sealed in triplelayered plastic. Here, no leaks, she said.
Its perfect, I said, accepting it. Youre right, a proper van would have been handy. Im glad we got it sorted.
We drove home as the sun set, casting a golden hue over the interior. James sighed, I thought youd be furious, but you handled it well.
People understand boundaries, James, I told him. When you say no clearly, they eventually respect it. Trying to please everyone only leaves you covered in other peoples mess.
He nodded, thinking it over. I might never have the courage to refuse Mum, but I see why you did.
I turned up the radio, feeling a lightness I hadnt felt in weeks. I wasnt a bad daughterinlaw. I was a daughterinlaw who knew her worth and guarded her space. That, I realized, is far better than being the everobliging, mudstained version of herself.
Lesson learned: setting firm limits may ruffle feathers, but it protects what youve worked hard forand earns you genuine respect.
