No, Mum, Im not coming back, Emma said, voice firm. Ill get everything I need from the shop.
But how will we keep supplies? The vitamins? Margaret asked, worry creasing her forehead.
Your stock isnt for me, Emma replied calmly. Those who need it can earn it themselves.
Just twenty more jars of pickles and were done for today, said Margaret Parker, wiping her hands on her apron.
Emma brushed a bead of sweat from her brow. Her shirt clung damply to her skin; the kitchen felt stale, the air thick with vinegar and dill.
She glanced at the table crowded with jars, lids, and vegetables. In the cellar, tomatoes waited their turn, cabbage for fermenting, and a dozen different salads. A weeks work still lay ahead.
Alright, Mum, Emma sighed, reaching for another jar.
Her hands moved almost on autopilotcucumbers into the jar, brine poured in, lid screwed tight. Again and again. She kept at it, trying not to think about how much more remained.
Soon our family will be ready for winter, Margaret said, surveying the rows of sealed jars with satisfaction.
Emma set the jar down and turned to her mother.
Mum, wheres Lucy? Why isnt she helping?
Margaret looked away, then began polishing the nowclean table.
Lucys got a new job. She cant take time off, you knowresponsible position, strict boss.
Emma tightened her lips. Of course. Lucy always found an excuse. Last year shed claimed a bad cold the very week the jam needed sealing. The year before that she was on a work trip that coincided perfectly with the harvest. Emma, meanwhile, never had any leeway; her mother had practically ordered her to quit work and come home.
Dont look so glum, love, Margaret whispered, noticing Emmas expression. At least well eat our own preserves all winter. Vitamins! Nothing better than that.
Emma nodded. That was the only bright sideher pickles did turn out wonderfully.
The following days blurred into a relentless cycle. Emma canned tomatoes, prepared salads, fermented cabbage. She hauled heavy crates of jars up and down the narrow stone stairwell dozens of times, helped clean after each batch, mopped the floor, wiped tables, took out the rubbish. Her hands ached, her back throbbed. By night she collapsed onto the bed, utterly exhausted.
When the work finally ended, Emma returned to her flat in Leeds, drained. She only had a single day left of holiday and wanted it quiet. Her fridge stared back with halfempty shelves. Yet her mothers satisfaction was the only thing that mattered. Lucy never called, never asked how things were going, never offered help.
Winter arrived. Emma visited her mother now and then, taking a few jars of pickles, tomatoes, saladsalways homemade, always tasty. Margaret delighted in the visits; they shared tea and long conversations.
At the end of January Emma came back again. Margaret greeted her with a smile and set the table. Emma sat, looking around. Storebought ham, cheese, and bread were laid out, but there were no salads or any of the homemade preserves.
Strange, Emma thought. Mum usually puts something from the cellar on the table.
They chatted about everythingnews, work, the weather. Emma almost forgot the odd emptiness. When it was time to leave, she stood, pulled on her coat, and said, Mum, Im going to the cellar to grab three jars of carrotcabbage slaw.
No, dont, Margaret snapped.
Emma raised an eyebrow. Why? I was just planning to make it for the week
Just dont, Margaret repeated, her gaze dropping. Something in her tone made Emmas chest tighten. She tossed her coat onto a chair.
Mum, whats wrong? Why cant I take a couple of jars?
Its I cant give you any of the preserves, Margaret muttered, eyes on the floor.
Emmas irritation flared. I spent a whole week preserving, remember? And now I cant even take a few jars? Explain, please.
Emma, its nothing you need to worry about right now, Margaret said, voice flat.
Emma turned, almost sprinting toward the cellar. Margarets voice rose, Emma! Dont touch it, I told you!
But Emma had already opened the cellar door, flicked on the light, and stared at the shelves. Half of the neatly arranged jars had vanished. Just days before theyd been almost full.
She climbed back up, heart hammering, and faced her mother, who had her head bowed, cheeks flushed with shame.
Mum! Are you short of money? Selling the preserves? Emma gasped. I could have transferred what you need. You shouldnt be out there selling food at your age!
Margaret pulled her hands away as Emma tried to grasp them. The room grew cold.
Is that it? Youre not selling them?
No, Margaret whispered. Everything went to Lucy.
What do you mean? Emma asked, breath catching.
Lucy had met a boyfriend from a welloff family in Manchester. Shed told him she was stockpiling for winter, and his relatives started demanding jars.
So Lucy cant say no. She wants to impress his family, and theyre wealthy, influential. It all happened quickly, Margaret confessed.
Emma swallowed, her anger turning to sorrow. You stopped me from taking jars so Lucy could have enough?
Margaret stayed silent.
Is Lucy the only one you think about? What about me? Who was sealing those jars all week? Where was Lucy when I was slaving away? Emmas voice trembled. Now shes emptying the shelves as if nothing happened!
Emma, Lucys at a crucial point in her life, Margaret tried to explain. She needs to make a good impression. Its not vital for you.
Emma shook her head, grabbed her coat, and said, I understand. She walked out without looking back, gripping the steering wheel of her car until her knuckles turned white. Anger, hurt, and bitterness roiled inside her as tears threatened. She turned the engine over and drove away.
Months passed. Lucy married the man from Manchester. Emma visited her mother only rarely, never demanding jars again. Margaret no longer brought up the subject; they talked about the weather, work, neighbours. Yet an invisible wall had risen between them.
One evening, the phone rang. It was Margarets bright voice. Emma, love, I need you next week. We have to make more provisions for the coming wintermore than ever, so theres enough for everyone.
Emma froze. Everyone?
Yes, everyone.
Emmas mind raced. She imagined Lucy once more hoarding jars for her new family, while Emma would have to work herself to the bone again.
No, Mum, she said firmly.
Silence hung on the line. What? Emma, you cant be serious. Of course youll come. I cant manage alone.
I wont, Emma replied. Ill buy what I need from the shop.
But the supplies the vitamins you love them, dont you?
My own supplies arent what I need, Emma said evenly. Those who need them can earn them themselves.
Emma! You cant just abandon us! Im your mother!
Emma hung up. She decided she would no longer be a goodnatured workhorse for others. She owed herself nothing more.
The lesson she carried forward was simple: love should not be measured in endless sacrifice for those who take without gratitude. True kindness respects both giving and receiving, and a life lived only to feed others appetites ends up empty for the giver.
