**Diary Entry – 12th September**
All my life, I’ve lived in a village near York. Ever since I was a girl, the land hasn’t just been work to me—it’s been my solace. It heals. It saves. It gives me strength when everything else feels like it’s falling apart. When my hands are in the soil and my back aches from the labour, my mind finds rest. That’s just how I’ve always lived. Spring for planting, summer battling weeds under the sun, and autumn for harvest—jams, chutneys, frozen veg, jars, lids, spices.
I’ve got a fair bit of land. Every year, I grow tomatoes, cucumbers, aubergines, courgettes, peppers, sweetcorn. Fruit too—apples, plums, cherries. From all this, I make preserves: chutneys, relishes, courgette spread, jams, cordials, pickled veg. There’s a separate chest freezer, packed neat with vegetable mixes, purées for my grandson, homemade chips. Something for everyone. Because that’s how I love them. Because I know, come winter, it’ll warm them.
My children are grown now, moved away. But when they visit, they never leave empty-handed. Boots stuffed with boxes, bags, crates. And I don’t mind—they’re family. It’s all for them.
Especially Charlotte, my youngest son James’s wife. She never stops praising my jars—the pickles, the aubergine relish, the apricot jam. Even takes little pots to my grandson’s nursery. I see how much she enjoys them, and I won’t lie—it pleases me. I put in the work, late nights clinking jars, following recipes to a T, and she’s happy. What more could I want?
Then, at my grandson’s birthday party, I realised things weren’t quite as they seemed. It was a lovely do—entertainers, kids shrieking with joy, adults round the table piled with food. Among the spread sat my pickles, courgette spread, apricot cordial. People ate, complimented. Flattering, until one woman said, “Oh, these are *those* pickles! Charlotte’s always giving me some! Your work, right? Absolute heaven—shop-bought can’t compare.”
At first, I brushed it off. Thought, maybe she’s round theirs often. Then another thanked me for the apricot jam. By evening, a third admitted she’d fed her kids my courgette spread all winter.
I looked for Charlotte. She wouldn’t meet my eye. Next morning, when we were alone, I asked her straight: “Charlotte, are you handing out my preserves?”
She sighed, stared at her feet. “Yes. Just a bit. They’re so good, everyone asks. You’ve loads anyway. I don’t give it all away—just a little.”
I didn’t shout. Didn’t scold. But something inside hollowed out. It stung. I boil, seal, label, watch temperatures—all by hand. And she passes them round as if they’re nothing.
I drove home with a stone in my chest. It’s not the giving. But did I make these for strangers? I’m not a shop. I’m a grandmother, a mother, a woman pushing seventy. Today, I can put up forty jars. Tomorrow—what if I can’t? If, God forbid, my health falters? They’ll have grown used to it always being there.
Now I’m back in the kitchen. Stirring chutney. Forty jars already sealed. And it hits me—maybe it *is* time to change. My daughter’s been saying for years: “Sell them.” I’d wave her off. “Not why I do it.” But perhaps I should. If I don’t set the boundaries, who will?
I won’t stop sharing with family. But now—only honestly. Not for them to pass on to whoever, but for them to value. To know each jar isn’t just “tasty”—it’s labour, sleepless nights, care, love. And maybe, just once, for someone to think: *How’s Mum? Has she got the strength? Wouldn’t helping be better than just taking?*
**Lesson learnt: Love shouldn’t be taken for granted. Neither should the hands that give it.**
