Last Year, My Mum Started Charging Us for Homegrown Veggies from Her Own Garden—Now She Expects Paym…

Last year, my mother did something quite out of the ordinaryshe decided to sell us vegetables from her own garden. She insisted that since we hadnt stopped by or helped her with the garden, things would be this way. How quickly she seemed to forget who had paid for watering the plot, for the greenhouse, and for the chaps who dug the soil and set up the beds with her. We always managed just fine buying fruits and veg cheaply from the local grocer.

Wed never owned a little country cottage, let alone a plot for vegetables ourselves. We lived in town, and I daresay my father had never even seen what potatoes looked like until they were already clean and waiting in a shop crate. Mother, on the other hand, had grown up in the countryside, where shed long had her fill of gardening in her youth and had sworn it off in adult life.

While Father was alive, there was never a need for homegrown produce. He looked after the family, even when money was tight. Mother worked as well, but it was Father who picked up the lions share of expenses.

That hardly changed, even after. Only once I was grown and working myself did I have the chance to help Mother as she aged, which I did. We lived together for a good while, splitting bills and running the household side by side. It wasnt until my wedding, just two years ago, that I moved from my mothers house.

It was last year, when mother retired, that she felt the pull of her childhood again, longing for days spent amongst her grandmothers apple trees and strawberry rows. She withdrew her savings and bought herself a little plot with a cottage on the edge of a Yorkshire village. Truth be told, it wasnt my idea of comfort, but she adored itand that was really what mattered.

Naturally, my husband and I had to chip in with funds for repairs and making the home more liveable. We could afford it; our jobs paid well enough. No, it wasnt enough for a manor, but it did see the roof mended, a water supply laid on, and the veranda glassed in against autumn winds.

We refused, however, to spend our weekends hauling compost or weeding rows. Neither of us was keen on country toil; we preferred a lie-in, a Sunday roast at the pub, or an outing with friends to anything involving mud and turnips. Mother scolded us more than once for our indifference to her labours, but those rebukes were usually drowned out by her next request for a contributionof which there were no shortage. There was always something: a greenhouse to replace, raised beds to construct, unruly brambles to be dug out. We paid for all of this, meaning mother herself never had to lift a finger for the heavy work.

We even paid for her cab fare when shed been shopping and was too laden to walk from the train station.

Every now and then, mother would share stories and photos of the gardens progressflowers in bloom, tomatoes ripening on the vine, a patchwork of colours. I didnt show much excitement, for I never really understood what made it so thrilling. It all trundled along until she sent me a photograph of her strawberries.

They were enormous and red, and at that, I fancied I could recall their taste, sweet and sharp, just as when I was little. My mouth watered, and I called to ask her to set some aside for meId collect them on my way home from work. I never imagined shed respond by sending photographs of various tubs, labelled with their prices in pounds and pence.

I read the message twice, certain Id missed a detail or perhaps muddled the story. I rang her, and asked straightcould it be she meant to sell me those strawberries? Indeed, that was her intent.

And what did you expect? Mother replied. Im here, working my fingers to the bone so these strawberries grow up so splendid, and you and your husband, you dont even show your faces once to help! Why should I send you anything for nothing in return? If you dont work, you dont eat, she declared, quite firm.

I reminded her, rather sharply, of all the support wed given to that gardens existence. She was appalled, as if Id asked for payment from her own hand. How could you speak that way to your mother? she said, deeply offended.

On principle, I have no intention of buying food from my mother. Let her find a customer elsewhere. For our part, my husband and I will buy our fruit and vegetables from the market, as we always have. Even after, Mother tried hawking us her cucumbers and marrows; we refused, quite logically.

Well not be helping with the garden again, not even if she pleads. If she asks for money for bills, medicine, or something genuinely important, of course well help. But for the sake of her garden, were done.