Refused to Transport Mother-in-Law’s Seedlings in My New Car and Was Labeled a Bad Daughter-in-Law

Lucy, why are you being such a stranger? Its just tomatoes, they dont bite, I said, leaning against the open door of my brandnew, gleaming Ford Kuga, the spring sun making the paint sparkle. My smile was guilty.

Lucy drew a deep breath, her hand sliding over the flawless, stillsmellinglikeafactory steering wheel. This car had been her dream. For three years shed tucked away her raises, turned down a lavish holiday, even kept an old coat on the back of the wardrobe just so she could finally buy this vehicle herselfno loan, no help from me, all her own money. The interior was a creamy offwhite, almost milkcoloured. She knew it wasnt practical, but she craved the luxury and the spotless look. And now, a mere four days after the purchase, she was faced with a demand: to haul my mother Margarets seedlings to the cottage.

James, Lucy tried to keep her voice steady, though her nerves were visible. Look at the cabinit’s beige. And my mothers seedlings are just soil, water, and those old yoghurt pots that always leak. I wont put them in there.

Well be careful! I pleaded. Mum packed everything. Well lay newspapers down, put the boxes in the boot. No need to call a van for ten crates, right? Shell be upset if we dont. You know how Margaret treats those tomatoes like her own children. Shes been fussing over them since February.

Lucy stepped out, slamming the door just enough not to startle the neighbours. The sun reflected off the spotless bonnet.

Ten crates? she repeated. Last weekend you mentioned a couple of boxes. Where did ten come from?

Well there are peppers, aubergines, some flower potspetunias, I think. Lucy, please. The generator in my cars broken, you know its in the garage. The seasons on, mums panicking, saying the seedlings are outgrowing their trays. If we dont haul them today, therell be a monthlong row.

A row if I dirt up my new car, Lucy snapped. Call a taxi. Man & Van or a simple estate car. Ill pay.

You dont get it, I lowered my voice, glancing up at the secondstorey windows where Margaret lived. She wont trust a cabbie. Shell say hell shake the crates and break them. She needs usher own boydoing it, with love, you know?

Lucy stared at me. Though I was thirtyeight, I looked more like a schoolboy who feared his mothers wrath more than a nuclear war.

Fine, she relented, feeling the weight of a mistake. But on one condition: everything goes straight into the boot. No pots in the cabin. Ill check every box to make sure the bottoms dry. Got it?

Got it! Youre the best! I kissed her cheek and bolted for the lift. Ill be back in a flash!

Lucy waited by the car, her heart racing. Shed known Margaret for seven years. The woman was a force of nature with a soft spotshe could swaddle a child in a knit sweater and get offended if anyone didnt wear it, and the cottage was her cathedral.

Ten minutes later the blocks front door swung open. I shuffled in, clutching a huge, watersoaked cardboard box from a banana shipment. Long, wilting tomato stalks dangled, tied with ragged strips. Behind me came Margaret, two plastic buckets in her arms, also brimming with greenery.

Careful, James, dont tilt it! she barked. These are Bullheart tomatoes, the best sort! Lucy dear, open the boot, love. My sons hands are full!

Lucy pressed the key fob; the boot lid rose smoothly.

Margaret, good afternoon. Whats this? Lucy pointed at the box. The bottoms wet.

Wet? Nonsense! she waved a hand, setting the buckets on the pavement. I gave them a little water this morning so they wouldnt dry out on the way. Its scorching today!

I hoisted the box into the boot. Lucy watched as a dark blot of moisture immediately began to spread across the brandnew plush mat Id bought especially to protect the interior.

Stop! Lucy shouted. James, take it out!

Whats happened? Margaret froze, a pot in each hand.

Its leaking! I asked for a dry bottom! James, the soils soggy!

Its just a drop, Margaret scoffed. Its soil, not oil. Itll dry, youll shake it off. The cars for hauling, not for dustbusting. Back in the day we used an old Morris to transport manure, potatoes, anything.

This isnt a Morris, Lucy said, keeping her voice steady. And Im not hauling manure. James, pull it out. We need a waterproof sheet. Do we have one?

What sheet? I thought newspapers would do

Newspapers get soggy in a minute! We need a heavy-duty tarpaulin!

I dont have any tarpaulin, Margaret muttered, pursing her lips. Ill fetch the greenhouse cover. Lucy, dont be fussy. Well line it tightly. Nothing will spill now, just a bit from the edge.

At that moment Mrs. Betty, the neighbour, emerged from the block, a tiny terrier trotting at her heels.

Oh, Margaret! Off to the farm? she chirped. And is that your daughterinlaw? Bought a new car? Fancy!

Yes, Betty, were about to load the seedlings. The cars brand new, but its all for naught if Lucy wont put a tomato in the boot.

Lucys face flushed. Margaret was using the neighbours as a public shaming weapon.

James, go to the DIY store round the corner. Get a roll of heavyduty tarpaulin, Lucy hissed through clenched teeth.

Why spend money? Margaret protested. I have an old shower curtain in the loft. Ill bring it.

While Margaret disappeared to fetch the curtain, I shifted from foot to foot, guilt gnawing at me.

Lucy, hang on. Well line it and go. Its only a fortyminute drive.

James, do you see how many boxes there are? Lucy gestured toward the hallway where a mountain of crates, pots, and even a spade wrapped in rags waited. They wont all fit in the boot, not even if we crush them with our feet.

Maybe we can squeeze some into the back seat, I suggested weakly.

No. I said no. The cabin carpet is beige.

Margaret returned, holding a grimy, yellowstained shower curtain.

Here! Sturdy enough. Lets get to work.

We spread the curtain over the boot and began loading. The boxes were varied, some warped, all damp cardboard. I watched like a hawk, making sure nothing slipped. Only five boxes fit into the boot; another equal pile remained, plus the buckets, a few small spades, and Margarets massive travel bag.

Right, the rest goes in the cabin, Margaret said, wiping sweat from her forehead. James, open the rear door.

Margaret, the cabin is offlimits, I said firmly, closing the rear door.

How is it offlimits? Where else am I supposed to put this? On my head? Ive grown these peppers for three months! Do you know how much the seeds cost?

I suggested a van. Everything would fit.

Youve gone mad! A van costs an arm and a leg, and a stranger wont treat them with care. Hell just dump them. These seedlings are fragile. Lucy, dont be stubborn. Open the car. Ill sit on my knees and hold them.

Mother, I intervened, Lucy asked for the cabin to stay clean.

Youre a lackey! Margaret snapped at me. You didnt respect your own mothers wishes and now youre shoving the cars interior?

She grabbed a crateoriginally a juice box cut open, full of black, oily earth. She tried to lift it, but the soggy cardboard gave way and the bottom fell out.

Thud!

Black, wet soil, mixed with roots, splattered onto Jamess white trainers and dripped onto the lower edge of Lucys lightgrey trousers. A stunned silence hung over the yard.

Lucy stared at her trousers, then at the soil stain on the boot, and finally at Margaret.

Oh dear Margaret muttered. Weve ruined the boot! All because you wouldnt let us in earlier!

Enough, Lucy whispered.

She walked around the car, slipped into the drivers seat, and turned the key.

Lucy? I asked, ankle deep in mud, bewildered. Where are you going?

To the car wash, she replied through the open window. You call a van or a taxi. Im not taking the seedlings.

Youre abandoning us with all this stuff? Margaret spat, her voice shaking with anger. How can you be so heartless?

James, tell her! she demanded.

Lucy, wait! I grabbed the door handle, pleading. We can clean it up, Ill wipe

Hands off, James, Lucys voice was ice. I warned you. I offered to pay for delivery. You refused. Sort it out yourselves.

She shifted into gear and eased away, leaving me and Margaret amid the wreckage of crates, buckets, and scattered earth. In the rearview mirror I saw Margaret gesturing wildly, shouting something indecipherable, while I hung his head in defeat.

Driving to the wash, my hands trembled on the wheel. Shame and fury warred inside me. Id been taught to be a good soninlaw, to respect elders, to help the family. Better a gentle quarrel than a harsh one, my mother used to say. Yet now, looking at the stain on the boot of my hardearned car, I felt a fierce, cleansing anger. Why did my no mean nothing? Why was my effort to protect my purchase dismissed so lightly? A simple taxi could have solved it. It wasnt a lifeordeath matter; it was just seedlings.

At the wash, the young attendant gave a sympathetic click of his tongue as he saw the mud.

Gardeners? he asked knowingly.

Almost, I sighed.

While the car was being cleaned, my phone buzzed nonstopcalls from Margaret, texts from me. I silenced it.

Back home, I poured myself a cup of tea and settled by the window. James was gone for four hours. I imagined them still in the yard, rummaging through the soil, calling a van, Margaret berating me for my poor choice of wife.

Later that evening James trudged in, dirty, exhausted, smelling of earth. He slipped into the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and downed it in one gulp.

Well, are you happy now? he asked without meeting my eyes. Mum was a mess. Her blood pressure spiked; she had to take some tablets.

Did you call a taxi? I asked calmly.

We did. Man & Van showed up in twenty minutes. They loaded everything and got it to the cottage without a hitch.

See? No one died, and the cars clean.

Lucy, it isnt about the car! James slammed his glass on the table. Its about respect! You made mum think a metal box was more important than her. She said shed never step foot in your house again.

Thats her choice, James, I replied. I offered a taxi from the start. I was ready to pay. She just wanted to force me to haul mud in a beige cabin. Why? To prove she still holds power?

Shes old, with her quirks! She could have been more reasonable.

And I wont compromise where it hurts me, Lucy stood, her voice steady. I respect your mother, but I demand respect for myself and my belongings. If she asked me to drive her to the doctor, Id be there in a heartbeat. But loading soil and seedlings in a brandnew boot when a delivery service exists is absurd. I wont take part in that nonsense.

James stared at the window, then sighed heavily.

Half the seedlings died, he said suddenly. One box tipped over while we were taking it out. I tried to clean it, but I think itll need a drycleaning.

I told you so, Lucy muttered.

For a moment I thought we could fix it, James said. Maybe you could call her tomorrow? Apologise? Just to keep the peace? Her birthdays coming up; we could go together?

I wont apologise for standing my ground, I replied. I did nothing wrong. I protected my boundaries. If she wants to chat, Im open. But I wont haul seedlings, old sofas, or bags of potatoes in this car again. Period.

The next two weeks were cold and quiet. Margaret didnt call, but she complained to James on the phone, calling me a snake in the grass. I held my own. It was uncomfortable to be the familys number one enemy, but every time I slipped into the clean, bright cabin of my car, I felt Id done the right thing.

On Saturday James was gearing up for a trip to the cottage.

You coming? he asked, not expecting much. The strawberries are ready. Mum seems a bit calmer, asked why I wasnt going.

I thought it over. Hiding forever felt foolish.

Ill go, but in my own car. And if anyone asks me to haul rubbish or manure, Ill turn the wheel around and leave.

Deal, James grinned crookedly. No manure.

At the cottage the silence was palpable. Margaret was tinkering among the rows. When she saw me, she straightened, brushed the dirt from her hands, and waited for a clash.

Hello, she muttered.

Good day, Margaret, I replied.

She squinted at my shining Kuga parked at the gate.

Betty told me your cars a joke for the countryside, she said. She says its not made for folk like us.

I like it, I said with a smile.

Fine she paused, then waved a hand. Come in for tea. Ive baked a strawberry pie.

The tea was lukewarm, the conversation thin, but there was no open war. James tried to be funny, talking about work, while Margaret slipped the best slices of pie onto his plate.

When we were about to leave, Margaret walked around my car, circled it, and peered inside at the spotless seats.

Clean, she noted.

I try, I answered.

And the driver of that big van he was a bit rough, but he got the boxes right to the greenhouse. It cost three hundred pounds extra, but it was worth it, she said, eyes softening a little.

Convenient, isnt it? I replied.

Convenient, she agreed reluctantly. James cant lift heavy things now. A strong van would do him good.

She fixed her gaze on me for a moment, then softened.

Lucy, youre a firecracker. Ive never let anyone sit on my lap, not even my late husband. Ive always kept my own ground. But youve got a point.

I raised an eyebrow, surprised.

Alright, off you go then, she said, handing James a bag. Heres some dill, radish, all washed and in a triplelayer bag. Nothing will spill.

Thanks, I said, feeling the dry, clean bag in my hands.

And one more thing, sheShe smiled, handed over her phone number, and said, Call me when you need a proper lift, and well settle this like proper neighbours.