I spent three hours gathering nettles to sell at the market so I could afford my medicine, and the last thing I expected was to end up with that fine in my hand—more expensive than the cure I needed.

My fingers still sting, even though I’m wearing these old rubber gloves, full of holes. I found them in the back of the closet, from the days when I used to go berry picking with my husband—God rest his soul.

Every morning, I get up at four, before even the birds have fully woken. I switch on the kitchen light and put the kettle on the stove—a cup of linden tea is all I can afford in the morning. My pension won’t come for another week, and as for my kids… well, they have their own struggles.

I leave the hilltop village before sunrise. I know just the right spot where the best nettles grow, by the creek behind the church. The soil there is moist, and even in early spring, the nettles grow tall and strong. I pick them carefully, each stem by hand, and place them in my old red raffia bag, the same one I’ve carried for years.

The 6:30 bus is nearly empty. Just me and a couple of other retirees heading into town for one reason or another. The driver knows me by now—he just nods when I get on, no words needed. He knows why I’m going. Just like I know why the others are going—each with their own troubles, their own small hopes wrapped in colorful raffia bags.

By the time I get to the market, it’s still nearly empty. I settle into my usual spot next to Mr. Johnson’s cheese stall. He has a permit, pays taxes, everything’s legal. I just place my raffia bag on the ground and start arranging my nettles—bundled up neatly, just how city folks like them.

“How much, ma’am?” asks a young woman dressed in expensive sportswear.

“Eight dollars for a bag, five for a small bunch,” I say, trying to straighten my arthritic back.

“Are they fresh? Where are they from?”

“From my land, sweetheart. Picked them this morning, the dew hadn’t even dried yet.”

She buys a whole bag, hands me the cash, and walks away in a hurry, already on the phone, talking about “detoxing” and “organic eating.” For her, my nettles are a luxury, a trend. For me, they are my medicine.

Only those who grew up in the countryside truly understand the simple value of the land, how it provides everything you need if you know where to look and how to harvest.

Kids these days grow up surrounded by concrete and don’t know the difference between a nettle and a burdock leaf. How could I explain to them that these wild plants kept me alive when I had nothing else?

By ten o’clock, after selling two bags and a few small bunches, I’d made over twenty dollars. That’s when I see them—two city officers in navy blue uniforms, making their rounds, checking each stall. My stomach tightens. I try to gather my nettles, to hide them, but it’s too late.

“Do you have a vendor permit?” asks one of them, a young man with a smooth face, probably never known hunger in his life.

“No, sir,” I say, looking down.

“You know it’s illegal to sell goods without a permit, don’t you?”

“I know, but—”

He doesn’t let me finish. He pulls out his notepad and starts writing. I try to explain about my medicine, my arthritis, my small pension that barely covers anything. He doesn’t care. He hands me the paper—a fine, seventy dollars.

“You have fifteen days to contest it,” he says mechanically, as if reading from a script.

Seventy dollars. More than my pension for a week. More than my medicine for a month. I want to cry, but I don’t. Not in front of them. I quietly pack up my nettles and leave.

Country life isn’t what it used to be. There was a time when no one asked for permits to sell what we grew with our own hands. When we could go into town with a basket full of goods and come back with enough money for the week’s simple needs. Now, it’s all regulations, taxes, fines.

On the bus ride home, bouncing along the pothole-ridden road, I think about the irony of it all. I set out to earn money for my medicine, and instead, I got a punishment worse than my arthritis—a pain in my heart and in my wallet.

Beside me, another elderly woman with a raffia bag full of green onions gives me a knowing look. I don’t need to say anything. She understands. Maybe tomorrow it’ll be her turn. We exchange only a glance and a sigh.

By the time I step off the bus, the sun is high in the sky. I slowly climb the hill toward home, dragging my bag—now lighter, yet infinitely heavier in meaning.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll try another market, farther away. Maybe I’ll find a quieter corner where the law’s eyes don’t reach as often. Or maybe I’ll just give up on the medicine and accept the pain as a constant companion.

I step inside and place the leftover nettles in a bowl of water. They’ll be enough for a soup, at least. I set the fine on the table and sit down on my old wooden chair, staring out the small window at the rolling hills where I grew up. What if I had never left? What if I had stayed on the farm with my father instead of marrying and moving to town?

Is there still a place in this world for people like me—people who only know how to live off the land? People who understand the language of the seasons better than the language of laws and official papers?

Maybe not. But tomorrow, at four in the morning, I’ll still wake up. And I’ll still walk down to the creek to pick nettles. Because that’s what I know. That’s who I am.