**Diary Entry – 12th June**
The golden glow of summer evenings over the fields of Shropshire does little to soothe the bitterness brewing inside me. I’m Emily, married to Thomas, and at thirty, my life feels overshadowed by resentment. We don’t have children yet—just dreams of a quiet, peaceful life. But every summer, my parents’ cottage in the countryside turns into my own personal purgatory. I’m the one breaking my back in the garden, while my sister Charlotte swoops in and takes every last vegetable, leaving us with nothing. This year, we’ve made a firm decision: no more. My parents call me selfish, but I’ve had enough of being their labourer while Charlotte reaps what I sow.
The decision didn’t come easily. Mum, Margaret, thought I was joking at first. But last summer was the final straw. Every time there was digging, weeding, or planting to be done, Thomas and I were called in. We toiled under the sweltering sun, backs aching, while Charlotte never lifted a finger—until harvest time. Then she’d arrive, load up her car with everything, and vanish. Mum would just shrug: *“She got here first—what could we do?”* Well, no more. I won’t slave away for someone else’s benefit.
The cottage wasn’t always part of our lives. When I was in school, my parents—Dad, Richard—were too busy working to bother with gardening. But after I left for university in Manchester, they decided retirement was looming and bought the place. I rarely visited—train fares weren’t cheap—and after marrying Thomas, I settled there. Life wasn’t kind, and three years ago, we moved back to Shropshire, into the house my grandmother left me.
By then, the cottage was in full swing. We arrived in autumn, and Mum lamented, *“The harvest was poor—too much rain this year.”* I believed her then, but now I’m certain: Charlotte took it all. She’s five years older, with a husband and daughter. When we returned, she was just easing back into work after maternity leave. We were never close, but we didn’t fight openly. I thought the cottage might bring us together—how wrong I was.
That first spring, we were roped into garden work. The plot was enormous: apple and pear trees, strawberry beds, blackcurrant and gooseberry bushes, greenhouses full of tomatoes and cucumbers, not to mention the vegetable patch. It was relentless. My parents had managed alone before, but with us back, they saw an opportunity: *“Now we’ve got extra hands!”* Charlotte was never asked to help. Mum disliked her husband, and Charlotte always had an excuse: *“Olivia’s too young; I can’t manage the cottage.”*
So Thomas and I became the designated gardeners. We dug, planted, watered, weeded—backbreaking work, but I told myself it was worth it for family. Then harvest season arrived, and the nightmare began. I tasted the strawberries once—still sour and unripe. *“They’ll be ready by the weekend,”* Mum said. But by Saturday, there were none left. Charlotte had come midweek, stripped the bushes bare, taking even the green ones, leaving Mum a small bowl. *“Olivia needs her vitamins,”* she’d said.
The same happened with the peas. *“Not ready yet,”* I was told, only to hear days later: *“Charlotte picked them—they’d have gone over.”* The tomatoes and cucumbers? Just enough for a salad. We’d planned to make preserves, but Charlotte got there first: *“They were getting too big, so I took them for chutney.”* Mum just sighed. *“You only come at weekends—they wouldn’t keep.”* I snapped. *“Why not call us? Save us some? I wanted to make pickles too!”* Mum’s reply stung: *“Charlotte’s got a mortgage, money’s tight, Olivia needs good food. You’re better off.”*
The injustice burned. Charlotte never lifted a finger—never watered, never weeded. She’d descend like a hawk, take everything, and disappear. I never even saw the blackcurrants—Charlotte *“got there first.”* My parents stayed silent, and I felt cheated. We gave up our weekends, our energy, our health—for what? Yes, we could buy veg at the market, but it’s not about that. It’s about watching someone else take credit for your sweat.
Last autumn, I cracked. I told my parents: *“We do the work, Charlotte takes the rewards. We’re done.”* They brushed me off—*“Don’t be dramatic, Emily.”* But I meant it. This summer, Mum called, pleading: *“We can’t manage alone—help us.”* I refused. She called me ungrateful: *“After all we’ve done for you?”* But am I wrong? Why is Charlotte the golden child, and I’m the packhorse? The hurt lingers, but I won’t back down.
This isn’t just about vegetables. It’s about fairness. Charlotte might think her needs come first, but her greed cuts deep. My parents want peace, but their silence is betrayal. I want my weekends back, my effort respected, my family seen. At thirty, I deserve rest—not endless labour for someone else’s gain.
I’m Emily, and I won’t set foot in that cottage until things change. If that means falling out with my parents, so be it. But I won’t let my dignity be trampled anymore.