**The Country Cottage Rebellion: How Marina’s Family Changed the Rules**
Marina, her husband Edward, their two children, and mother-in-law Margaret set off for their cottage in the Cotswolds to plant potatoes. The morning air was thick with dampness, and the mood in the car was tense.
“Edward, have you fallen asleep at the wheel?” Margaret snapped, glaring at her son-in-law. “Forgotten how to park? Hurry up—it’s time to get planting!”
Frowning, Margaret climbed out of the car and marched to the boot. Suddenly, her shriek shattered the quiet.
“Good heavens, what on earth—?”
“Mum, what’s wrong?” Marina gasped, dropping a bag of groceries. The crash of broken glass followed—her jars of pickled cucumbers and tomatoes hadn’t survived the fall. She rushed to her mother-in-law, baffled by what could’ve shocked her so.
Margaret stood frozen by the open boot, clutching her chest, eyes wide with horror. Marina peered inside and froze: the pepper seedlings Margaret had painstakingly nurtured were now a mangled mess of soil and snapped stems.
“Edward, look what you’ve done!” Margaret wailed. “You’ve killed them all!”
Marina waved a hand, stifling her irritation. She could already predict the row about to erupt.
“Come on, Edward, no slacking! Pull the weeds by hand, then use the hoe,” Margaret ordered, oblivious to the chaos.
Edward sighed heavily. “Maybe we could plant fewer potatoes next year?”
His suggestion drowned under Margaret’s stern glare. “What nonsense is this? Lazybones! Come winter, you’ll be the first whining, ‘Mum, pass the potatoes!'”
Edward trudged toward the vegetable patch, knowing arguing was pointless. The cottage and its endless toil had been a sore point in the family for years.
When Edward married Marina fifteen years ago, he’d never imagined his dowry would include a run-down cottage in rural Gloucestershire. Margaret, raised in the countryside, took pride in her land: a house inherited from her parents, a modest garden, and an enormous potato field. In her youth, her family kept cows and pigs—everything was homegrown. But times had changed. Now, supermarkets sold everything, and country homes were meant for leisure, not backbreaking labour.
But not for Marina’s family. Their cottage remained a hub of relentless work. Thankfully, the livestock were gone—Margaret’s parents had passed, and she had no interest in returning to farm life. But her habit of planting every inch of soil remained. Every spring brought the same debate: what to plant, and how much.
“Marina, did you soak the tomato seeds?” Margaret asked.
“Yes, Mum.”
“Tell Edward to come over—I bought a new grow light. It needs installing.”
“Alright.”
“And the peppers? How many seedlings?”
“About sixty…”
“Only sixty? I’ve got a hundred more! We’ll run out at this rate!”
Edward, overhearing, clutched his chest theatrically, rolled his eyes, and muttered, “We’re doomed!” before retreating to the patio to smother bitter laughter. He knew the drill: hauling seedling trays, digging beds—not with a tiller, but a spade.
“A tiller? It ruins the soil! There’ll be no yield!” Margaret had shrieked years ago when Edward suggested buying one.
“But I’m not a tractor! It’s exhausting, and my back hurts!”
“That’s laziness talking! More hard work, less complaining!”
Edward resorted to cunning. Marina pricked out sixty pepper seedlings; he “accidentally” reduced the number. By planting day, barely half remained.
“A few more might snap on the way,” he’d grin slyly.
But Margaret was no fool. Every spring, she roused them at dawn.
“Still asleep? It’s half five! Up, now—we must beat the heat! Emily, Michael, get dressed!” She’d barge into the grandchildren’s room.
Ten-year-old Emily and fifteen-year-old Michael burrowed under their duvets, but Margaret was relentless. “No excuses! Everyone up—we’re leaving!”
Edward hid in the bathroom but never lasted long—Margaret would soon knock. “Asleep in there? Start the car! And don’t forget the seed potatoes!”
This year, Margaret decided to refresh their “seed stock,” forcing the family to buy three sacks of premium potatoes. They’d sprouted them on the balcony. Last night, the kids had carefully sorted them, avoiding damage. But this morning, Margaret found snapped sprouts in the bin and burst into tears.
“I knew it! You’ve ruined my potatoes!”
Emily bit her lip. “That was me… I didn’t mean to.”
Margaret’s heart softened—briefly. Then she barked orders to load the car.
“Did you pack the potatoes? The food? The seedling film? The peppers in the boot?”
“Yes,” Edward grunted.
“Well, at least you did something right!”
Neighbours, woken by the commotion, peered through their curtains, willing Edward’s car to leave.
Marina bit her tongue, but the two-hour drive tested her patience. Margaret prattled nonstop, forcing polite replies.
“Marina, guess what I’ve decided?” Margaret began.
“What, Mum?”
“Let’s plant fewer potatoes this year!”
Edward nearly ran a red light in shock. Thankfully, the roads were empty early on a Saturday. Margaret scowled, ready to scold—but seeing his hopeful face, she continued, “We’ll dig up the field and transplant raspberries instead.”
“When you say ‘dig up,’ you mean me, don’t you?” Edward ventured.
“Of course! You’ll dig where I say, lay the edging, and plant the bushes. You’re my star labourer!” She laughed as his face fell.
Edward dreamed of lawns, a gazebo, a barbecue, and a pool. Keep a few beds for carrots, beetroot, and cucumbers—that’s all. Grilling, sunset views, the scent of flowers… He closed his eyes, savouring the imagined smell of charred sausages—until Margaret snapped him back.
“Daydreaming? Move it—potatoes won’t plant themselves!”
Margaret yanked open the boot and shrieked.
“Heavens, look at this!”
Marina, hearing the cry, dropped her bag again. Jars smashed; her jeans tore as she sprinted over.
“Edward, you’ve destroyed them!” Margaret wailed.
Marina snapped. “Enough! Your greenhouses are overflowing. Why do you need this many?”
“Why? For preserves! For friends!”
“If your friends want pickles, let them grow their own! Or help out! We’re not their servants!”
“Marina, how could you? I’m your mother!” Margaret’s lips trembled.
“I’ll help family—not freeloaders.”
Marina was done. She wanted weekends with friends, not blistered hands. She refused to let her kids endure what she had. But Margaret wouldn’t yield, planting like she fed an army.
This was the last straw. Edward, stunned by Marina’s fury, watched silently.
“Right, Mum,” Marina said firmly. “Last year, we planted twenty rows. This year—five. We need twelve buckets for winter; you’ll keep five. That’s four sacks, five rows. The rest is waste.”
“Waste?!”
“Yes! Six sacks rotted in the cellar last year. You gave three away. Who planted, weeded, and picked bugs? Us! Either five rows—or we never come again. Choose.”
“At least seven…” Margaret mumbled.
“Five.”
That autumn, a tractor ploughed the plot. Over winter, Marina and Margaret redesigned it: paths, flowerbeds, raspberry canes, apple trees. Margaret begged for “one more bed,” but Marina stood firm.
By spring, the garden was transformed—flowerbeds, a gazebo, even a tiny pool. Within a year, Margaret’s friends visited willingly, even offering to weed.
Emily and Michael loved summers there now. Finally, Marina and Edward breathed easy. They had enough veg—and if not, the shops were close.