*Bitter Tomatoes: How Preserves Tore a Family Apart*
Margaret Whitmore, exhausted after a long day, reaches for her phone, but before she can dial, it rings sharply, as if warning of conflict. It’s Maureen—her late husband’s sister—a woman whose calls always bring tension. “What’s gone wrong now?” Margaret wonders. Maureen rarely phones, and when she does, it’s like a thunderclap.
Margaret hesitates before answering.
“Maggie, where’ve you been?!” Maureen barks, skipping any greeting. “I’ve rung six times already!”
“I didn’t hear it—” Margaret murmurs, the weight of weariness pressing down.
“Oh, of course not!” Maureen scoffs, laughter laced with scorn. “Listen, I’m calling about your tomatoes this year—just *brine*, no flavour! You need a different recipe, less salt—”
“There won’t *be* salt,” Margaret cuts in, her voice steely. “Or tomatoes. Nothing at all.”
Maureen falters. “What d’you mean—*nothing*? Are you angry with me?”
—
Nine months earlier, in the quiet village of Mallowford, Margaret had often contemplated shrinking her garden. Yet every spring, she’d find herself back at it: seedlings, plots, seeds—an unbreakable cycle. The cellar held dusty jars of last year’s preserves, untouched by her children or relatives.
Her husband, James, had once helped—digging, watering, harvesting. But he’d been gone two years now, leaving Margaret alone against the garden’s demands and the endless stream of visitors. James’s family visited often—ostensibly to tend his grave, but always leaving with bags of produce. Maureen was the worst, full of requests and critiques.
Margaret’s children visited less, though they helped with the potatoes. The rest she did herself, guarding her tomatoes and cucumbers like treasures. After her daughter-in-law, Sophie, once weeded so carelessly the carrots withered, Margaret stopped letting anyone near the beds—except at harvest.
“Mum, why d’you grow so much?” her son, Peter, would ask. “You slave over this patch only to give it all away. Look at Mrs. Dawson next door—just flowers and fruit trees. She even sells bouquets! You could sell veg at the market instead of handing it out.”
“But what about your preserves?” Margaret would protest feebly.
“We don’t need that much,” Sophie would counter. “We can buy jam. But Aunt Maureen? She takes enough for half her family. It’s *never* enough. Time you lived for *yourself*.”
“I know, but—” Margaret would start.
“No more ‘buts’!” Peter would interrupt. “You’ve earned a rest.”
One evening, Margaret sifted through old seed packets—tomatoes, cucumbers, herbs—then paused. The children were right. Why bother? She resolved to plant only what *she* needed. No more preserves—just a few jars for herself.
She considered flowers, clueless where to start, and meant to ask Mrs. Dawson—until the phone rang. Maureen.
“What now?” Margaret thought, her chest tightening.
Maureen *never* called in winter—her visits were strictly summer, near harvest.
The phone stopped, then shrilled again. Margaret answered.
“Maggie! Where’ve you *been*? It’s not like you’ve winter chores!”
“I was just—”
“Never mind! Those tomatoes—*inedible*! Too salty. Try less vinegar next year—”
“There *won’t* be a next year,” Margaret said flatly. “No salt, no sugar. Nothing.”
Maureen sputtered. “You’re joking! What about *us*?”
“My doctor said no more sugar. High blood pressure.”
“Well, fine, but *we* still need preserves!”
“The plants are growing,” Margaret lied. Five tomato plants—no more. Just for her.
After hanging up, she called Mrs. Dawson.
“Come round for tea,” she said. “I’m lonely.”
Over tea, they talked of summer plans.
“I’d like flowers, but I know nothing,” Margaret admitted. “You sell yours so easily.”
“Flowers need care too,” Mrs. Dawson smiled. “But no pickling! I sell potted plants—my granddaughter helps online. The market’s dreary alone. You should join me.”
“No more market,” Margaret sighed. “And no more jars. Just herbs—for *me*.”
“Good for you! Keep a few chickens, like me. Easy.”
“That’s it!” Margaret brightened. “I’ll sell most, keep two. Fresh eggs—that’s enough.”
When Peter and Sophie arrived to plant potatoes, they gaped at the changes. The greenhouse brimmed with emerald herbs.
“Mum, gone professional?” Peter laughed.
“Herbs sell well,” Margaret said. “Mrs. Dawson does flowers; I’ll do parsley, chives.”
“No more tomatoes, then?” Sophie teased.
“Never! Just for us. Mrs. Dawson suggested perennials—less work, pretty.”
“We’ll buy you some!” Sophie promised. “And build a *proper* patio—for tea with Mrs. Dawson. I’ll design it.”
“Fancy?” Margaret asked hopefully.
“The *best*,” Sophie vowed.
—
Maureen arrived unannounced in late August. The potatoes, harvested early in the dry spell, were already stored. The greenhouse shimmered with herbs; radishes dotted the beds.
“Where’s *everything*?” Maureen frowned.
“Only grew potatoes this year.”
“And *this*?” She gestured at the herbs.
“For selling. Flowers are for joy.”
Maureen’s smile stiffened. “James would’ve—”
“James loved *me*,” Margaret said calmly. “And I’m done.”
“But the *berries*! Where are they?”
“Sold most. Froze some.”
Maureen reddened. “This land was *ours*! You’ve no right—”
Peter stepped in. “Auntie, *you* sold your share. Dad paid extra—we skipped holidays for that. Funny how you still expect free food.”
“Cheeky boy!” Maureen hissed. “Margaret, pack us some jars—”
“There *are* none.”
Maureen stormed off, husband grumbling, their boot empty.
As Sophie brought tea to the new patio, Peter grinned. “They won’t be back.”
Margaret smiled. Finally, she was living for *herself*.
