**The Mystery of the Tarnished Jars**
“Not their wretched cottage again!” Emily scowled when she heard her in-laws had once more summoned James for help. “Honestly, everything’s available in shops—why ruin their health over this?”
“What choice do I have?” James sighed, throwing his hands up. “I’ve told them a hundred times to sell that place, but they won’t listen. The fence is barely standing—they asked me to fix it.” After a brief exchange, he left for his parents’ house and then headed to the cottage.
While James was gone, Emily took the children, Sophie and Oliver, to the local amusement park. They rode the carousel, laughed, and ate ice cream. Back home, she started on dinner. James returned late that evening, exhausted, his clothes smudged with dirt. In the hallway, he handed her a bag. “From Mum,” he muttered. Peeking inside, Emily found several jars of preserves. “What’s in them?” she asked curiously. “No idea, didn’t check,” James replied wearily before heading to the shower.
Emily lined the jars on the kitchen table. Rusty lids, dull glass, suspicious stains—they looked as though they’d been hidden in a cellar for years. Her chest tightened with unease. When James reappeared, she pointed at them. “Did your mother really give us these? Have you seen the state they’re in?”
“Blimey!” James exclaimed, inspecting them. “Why on earth did I take these? Should’ve checked.” “You think your mother didn’t notice what she packed?” Emily arched a brow. James merely shrugged. “Bin them. We’re not eating that.”
She reached for the bin, then paused. Something about the jars nagged at her. Hiding them in the cupboard, she decided to wait for her mother-in-law, Margaret’s, next visit. “Let her explain this little ‘gift’ herself,” Emily thought, resentment simmering.
A week later, Margaret arrived. Feigning politeness, Emily invited her to the table. “Fancy some pickles, Margaret? Or perhaps the tomatoes? Or both?” she asked, sliding the tarnished jars forward. Margaret adjusted her glasses, studied them, and gasped. “What on earth is this? Are you trying to poison me? How dare you!”
Their relationship had always been civil. Margaret had attempted to lecture Emily a few times but backed off after meeting calm resistance. Her outrage now seemed genuine. “These are *your* preserves,” Emily replied evenly, a faint smirk playing on her lips. “Rubbish!” Margaret snapped. “Mine have proper lids—shiny ones! I’d never give you such muck!”
“James brought them back from your cottage,” Emily pressed. But Margaret held her ground. “You’re lying! These aren’t mine. Where they came from is your business—you’re the lady of the house!”
“Shops have expiry dates; these don’t. *My* mum sold her cottage years ago—she doesn’t hand out dodgy jars,” Emily retorted, irritation flaring. Margaret’s blame-shifting grated on her. “Why would you even serve me these?” Margaret cried, throwing her hands up.
“To show you what *you* gave us,” Emily said coolly. Just then, the door banged open—James walked in. “Oh, love!” Margaret wailed. “Your wife tried to feed me rotten food!”
“Mum, these are *your* jars,” James said, baffled. “You gave them to me last week.” “Me?” Margaret’s face paled. “I’d never!” “They *are* yours,” James insisted, a knowing grin forming.
“If they *were* mine, Emily stored them wrong—that’s why they’ve gone off!” Margaret declared, realising denial was useless. “In a *week*?” Emily scoffed. “I don’t know, and I don’t care!” Margaret cut in. “But the jars could’ve been reused! Mine even have a mark—a blue cross on the bottom!”
Emily flipped a jar and triumphantly revealed it. “Here’s your cross!” Margaret’s face flushed crimson, beads of sweat forming. She wished the floor would swallow her. “Oh… these *are* mine,” she stammered. “No idea how this happened! Maybe the bags got mixed. Or *you* stored them poorly. Or—or stuck the label on to shame me!”
“Why would we?” James shot back, offended. Margaret, desperate to escape, hurriedly left. After she’d gone, Emily and James talked for hours. “No more taking things from your parents,” Emily decided. “I won’t be put in this position again.” James nodded. “You’re right. We’ll buy our own, no more rusty-jar dramas.”
The incident taught them a lesson. Emily realised even small gestures could hide complications, and James vowed to inspect future “gifts” more carefully. As for the jars? They stayed in the cupboard—a reminder that family ties need both love *and* caution.