– Are you serious right now, Lily? – Victor forced a crooked smile. – You’re kicking your own brother out over a couple of kilos of berries? – I’m not kicking out my brother, Victor. I’m kicking out a freeloader!
– Leave the strawberries where they are, put the empty bucket by the porch, and you can be on your way! – My voice came out sharper than I had intended, but it was too late to back down.
Victor froze with the full plastic bucket in his hands, and his face slowly turned a beetroot shade of red. He shifted his gaze from the berries to me, then to my husband Henry, who was hammering the last nail into a new section of the roof.
The sound of the hammer stopped, and such a heavy silence fell over the property that you could hear a bumblebee banging against the greenhouse glass.
– Are you serious right now, Lily? – Victor forced out that crooked smile again. – You’re throwing your own brother out because of a few kilos of berries? – I’m not throwing out my brother, Victor. I’m throwing out a freeloader, – I said slowly, pulling off my dirty work gloves. – You arrived five hours ago. – In that time you’ve managed to eat a whole pot of soup, drink a litre of fruit drink, and lie in the deckchair under the apple tree for three hours while Henry and I were hauling sheets of roofing in the heat. – I’m a guest! – Victor exclaimed, taking a step toward me. – Your hearts should be glad that a family member dropped by. And here you are setting conditions like some debt collector!
– Guests bring cake for tea, not empty buckets for self-service, – I shot back. – Bucket on the ground! Now!
Victor angrily hurled the bucket. Large berries, dripping with sweet juice, spilled onto the gravel path, staining the light stones with red blotches.
He spun around, jumped into his shiny foreign car, and tore off so fast that dust rose in a column above our fence.
Henry climbed down from the ladder, wiping sweat from his forehead. – Do you think it got through to him? – he asked, watching the car disappear. – I doubt it, – I sighed. – He’ll start calling the whole family now and telling them what a shrew I am. But I don’t care, Henry. I won’t let anyone turn our cottage into an all-you-can-eat buffet anymore.
This countryside cottage had come to us from my grandmother last spring. An old house with a crooked veranda and a plot overgrown with nettles as tall as a man. For ten years no one had done anything with it.
Relatives only remembered the “family nest” when Grandmother was still able to bake pies and set the table. As soon as she took to her bed and the garden ran wild, the number of people wanting to “get some fresh air” dropped sharply.
Henry and I had poured everything into this place: vacation money, weekends, strained backs, and calluses that wouldn’t heal for months. We hauled away three truckloads of rubbish, restored the well, and tilled the virgin soil. And as soon as the first fruits appeared, the gate stopped closing.
A week after the scandal with Victor, my cousin Sophia appeared at the gate. She didn’t come alone – she brought two children and a tiny dog that immediately started digging a hole in my flower bed. – Lily, hi! – she chirped, not even waiting for me to open the latch. – We were just driving by and decided to give the kids some vitamins. Has your raspberry season ended? – Hi, Sophia, – I blocked her path. – The raspberries are at their peak. But we have new rules. Didn’t Victor tell you?
Sophia pursed her lips and put on a mask of deep sorrow. – Oh, he was saying something about your greed, but I didn’t believe him. We’re family, Lily! The kids have been looking forward to this trip so much. You wouldn’t deny your nephews a handful of berries, would you? – I won’t deny a handful, – I nodded. – But if you want to take some with you, here’s the deal: there are two hoes over there. See those carrot beds? – They need weeding. That’s half an hour of work for you and the kids. After that, eat as much as you like and take a litre jar with you.
Sophia’s children, hearing the word “work,” immediately soured. – Have you lost your mind? – Sophia exploded. – You expect me to dig in the dirt in my white trousers? And exploit the children? This is supposed to be a holiday! – It’s a holiday for you, – I replied calmly. – For me it’s three hours bent over every morning. Either you help, or go for a walk by the river. Nature is free for everyone there – go and relax. – Choke on your own raspberries! – Sophia shrieked, grabbing the dog under her arm. – Grandmother would turn in her grave if she knew what a monster you’ve become! – Grandmother is alive, healthy, and fully supports me, – I called after her. – You can phone her and complain!
That evening the phone grew hot. Mum called three times, Aunt Elena sent an angry message: – Lily, you can’t be so calculating. Family ties are more important than a bucket of raspberries. Come to your senses before everyone turns away from you.
I sat on the veranda, pressing a mug of mint tea to my cheek. Inside I felt a strange mixture – a sticky sense of guilt and a cold, crystal-clear sense of rightness. – You know what’s funniest? – I asked Henry. – They all appeal to the “family nest.” But none of them offered to chip in for the roofing for that nest. – Because in their minds the “nest” is a place where the table is always set and no one asks where the food came from, – Henry said, sitting down beside me. – Uncle Stan is coming tomorrow. Get ready for the heavy artillery.
Uncle Stan was a legend in our family. Big, loud, a former manager, he was used to kicking open any door. He arrived on Saturday morning in his old off-road vehicle and immediately headed for the apple trees. – Well, niece, receive the inspector! – he boomed, slapping me on the shoulder so hard I nearly buckled. – Victor complained, Sophia cried… – And I say the girl has simply switched on her housewife mode – it happens to the best of us. Come on, get the containers out. The apples are excellent this year. I need three sacks for cider. – Three sacks is serious, Uncle Stan, – I looked him straight in the eye. – But the apples left are mostly on the upper branches. The ladder is in the shed. – And another thing… our fence has collapsed on the northern side. Henry can’t manage it alone – we need to dig in a new post. Will you help?
Uncle Stan frowned, his thick eyebrows knitting together. – You’re setting conditions for me, Lily? For me? I carried you in my arms when you were just learning to walk! – Uncle Stan, I really value those memories, but they won’t hold up the fence. Either you take the shovel and go help Henry now, or you buy apples at the market. There are plenty there, and no one asks you to dig posts. – Why, I… You… – he sputtered with indignation. – Do you realise what you’re doing? You’re chopping the roots of our family tree! – I’m just pruning the dry branches that only suck the sap and give nothing in return, – I answered in as calm a tone as I could manage. – So, shovel or market?
Stan huffed for a long time, staring at his huge palms. Then he suddenly spat to the side and growled: – Bring your shovel, you little viper! But if the apples are wormy, you’ll have only yourself to blame!
It was a small victory. All day Uncle Stan grumbled, swore under his breath, and spoke ill of “the younger generation,” but the post stood firm. In the evening, sweaty and tired, he sat at our table and devoured young potatoes with dill. – We’re sitting pretty, aren’t we, – he said suddenly, looking around the property. – It’s been a long time since I worked like this. Even my appetite is different. – Exactly, Uncle Stan, – I smiled. – Because this is honest bread. And honest apples. – All right, – he grunted, getting up from the table. – I’ll fill the sacks myself. And I’ll tell Victor to stop yapping. You, Lily, may be a snake, but you’re a fair one.
Two weeks later the situation began to change. The family split into two camps. Some – Victor and Sophia – declared a boycott and wrote nasty things in the family chat. Others, guided by Uncle Stan’s authority, began to ask cautiously: – How are things going with the work there? We could use some cucumbers – we can come and pull weeds.
One August evening, as the sun slowly sank into the thickets of fireweed, I walked to the gate. On it hung our new sign: “Help – then taste. No help – just admire.”
A neighbour from down the lane, Aunt Val, who had watched our relatives’ raids for years, approached. – Well, well, Lily, – she shook her head. – You’re the first one on this street who’s dared to turn family away at the gate. The rest of us put up with it, and then in winter we have empty cellars. – Putting up with it isn’t a virtue, Aunt Val, when it’s used like a floor rag, – I replied. – I’m not greedy. I just don’t want to be the hired help on my own land. – And quite right, – Aunt Val approved. – Look at that strong fence you have now. Did Uncle Stan help with that? – He did. It turns out that if you don’t just “give” to a person but ask them to “do” something in return, they start to respect themselves too.
A month passed. We were finishing the last harvest. On the veranda stood neat rows of jars – our gold, our winter stores. And you know what was most surprising? This year we had more jars than ever before.
I stood on the porch watching Henry close the greenhouses for winter. Suddenly I heard an engine near the gate again. It was Sophia.
She got out of the car without the children, without the dog, and without her usual petulant expression. In her hands she held a large package. – Lily, I… – she hesitated by the entrance. – Well, I bought some elite honeysuckle seedlings. They say it grows well here. Shall we plant them? I’ll dig the holes myself, I promise.
I looked at my sister. She looked embarrassed, but the consumerist arrogance that had irritated me so much before was gone from her eyes. – Come in, Sophia, – I opened the gate. – The shovel is where it always was. And honeysuckle is good. It will be next year’s harvest. – Listen, – she came closer and spoke more quietly. – Victor is still angry. He says you humiliated him. – I didn’t humiliate him – his own laziness did, – I answered. – If he wants to make peace, the path is open. But only through work. There’s no more “free cheese” here, Sophia. Instead there’s a real home.
We dug the holes together. We were silent, listening to the cries of birds flying south and the smell of fallen leaves. And in that silence there was far more genuine family closeness than in ten years of sitting at someone else’s expense.
When the seedlings were safely covered with soil, I brought out two jars of jam from the house – from the very same raspberries that had once sparked the scandal. – Here, – I handed them to my sister. – This is your advance. For finally understanding.
Sophia took the jars, and I saw tears glint in her eyes. – Thank you, Lily. You know, it really does taste better this way. When you know you’re not just here for nothing.
In the evening, after our guest had left, Henry and I sat by the fire. The flames licked at the dry branches, and sparks flew into the black starry sky. – So, commandant, – my husband smiled. – Season closed? – Closed, – I leaned against his shoulder. – And you know what I’ve realised? A fence isn’t needed to shut people out. It’s needed to keep inside only those who are truly dear to you. And who are ready to carry the burden together with you. – And the apples really turned out well this year, – Henry added. – Even Uncle Stan admitted it. – Because they smell of justice, not resentment, – I whispered, closing my eyes.
Peace settled over the cottage. My peace. My land. My rules. And for the first time in many years I felt here not like the manager of a hotel, but simply like a happy person who had finally finished building her fortress.
