Klara crossed her arms and took a step back, as if that sheet of paper were something dirty.
“I can’t believe it, Laura. Did you really start counting every single jar?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “I thought we were family.”
Michael remained silent. He knew him too well: a battle raged inside him. Between the usual “leave it, don’t make a scene” and the reality that was finally written in black and white.
— Precisely because we are family — I replied calmly — I don’t want everything to keep falling on our shoulders, as if our time and our health were worthless.
Thomas huffed and snorted and tapped the trunk lid lightly, without closing it completely.
— You know what, Klara? Let’s go. It seems we’re not welcome here anymore.
“Wait,” said Michael, raising his voice for the first time. “Laura hasn’t said anything bad. She’s worked all summer. I’ve seen it.”
Klara turned sharply towards her brother.
—And you agree with this? Paying for canned goods? We get them for free with others.
“Then get them from others,” I said quietly. “I can’t and don’t want to go on like this anymore.”
A heavy silence fell. Only crickets chirped and, in the distance, a dog barked. Klara looked at the boxes, then at me, then back at Michael. For the first time, she didn’t have a quick answer.
— How much did you say? — he asked more quietly.
— Two hundred euros. Everything’s been calculated. If you want, I can show you each game again.
Thomas took out his phone, nervously typed something, and put it back in his pocket.
“It’s absurd,” he murmured. “But let’s get this over with.”
Klara sighed dramatically, took out her wallet, and began counting the money with sweeping gestures, as if she wanted the neighbors to see. She placed the bills on the cash register.
“Let me make this clear, Laura,” he said coldly. “Not because you’re right, but because I don’t want a family scandal.”
I took the money and put it in my apron pocket.
— That’s enough for me — I replied.
They loaded the jars in silence. No applause, no praise, no “it smells so good.” When the car started, Klara didn’t even look back.
Michael stood on the steps, watching the dust rise.
“They’ll be angry for a long time,” he said.
– I know.
— Do you regret it?
I looked at my hands. Red from work, with small old burns, with rough skin.
—No— I replied after a moment—. For the first time in many years, no.
The night was strangely quiet. We had a simple dinner, without rushing. Michael put the kettle on the stove and, for the first time, I didn’t think I’d have to boil anything else, prepare anything else, sterilize jars.
In the following days, the phone remained silent. Not a single message from Klara. Nor from Thomas. Only a neighbor peeked through the gate and asked if I was selling beet, because she’d like to buy some jars. I told her a fair price. She smiled and said, “Okay.”
Then another person came. And another one.
I didn’t get rich. But, for the first time, my work had value and limits. I no longer stayed up all night, I didn’t work to the point of total exhaustion. I only did what I could and what I wanted.
In October, Michael received a message from Klara. Brief: “We’ll go for Christmas. No canned food.”
He showed me the screen, looking uncertain.
– Alright?
I smiled.
– Perfect.
When winter arrived, my back hurt less. And the peace and quiet at home was worth more than any full jar.
And perhaps not everyone understood the lesson. But I did understand mine.
