The Threadbare Socks of My Son
When my son William and his wife, Emily, came to my house for supper, I laid the table as I always did—fit for a feast. Roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, mashed potatoes, and a proper salad—all his favourites. But when William took off his shoes in the hallway, I nearly fainted. There, poking shamelessly through gaping holes in both his socks, were his toes! I stood frozen, thunderstruck. Was this my boy—the one I’d raised, clothed, and taught to take pride in his appearance—walking about in such tatters? And where, might I ask, were his wife’s eyes? This was beyond the pale! Even now, the sight haunts me, and I must speak of it, or I shall burst with indignation.
I, Margaret Thompson, spent my life ensuring William wanted for nothing. I stitched his shirts, bought him the finest shoes, even when pennies were tight. He grew into a proper engineer, married Emily—a girl who struck me then as sweet and capable. They’ve their own flat, both work decent jobs, and on the surface, all seems well. I don’t meddle, but I do invite them for supper now and then, to see them and spoil them with home cooking. And then—this! Those socks weren’t just worn; they were a cry for help, a sign something had gone awry in their home.
It began when they arrived. I bustled about, setting plates, warming the roast. William slipped off his shoes, and I caught a glimpse of his feet. At first, I thought my eyes deceived me—surely my son, always so tidy, wouldn’t wear rags? But no—those socks looked as though they’d survived the Blitz. Holes at the sides, heels worn thin, toes peeking out like inmates escaping prison. I froze, even dropped a spoon. Emily, noticing my stare, giggled. “Oh, Margaret, it’s his own fault. I’ve told him a hundred times to buy new ones.” *His* fault? And you, my dear, where were you looking?
Through supper, I could hardly concentrate. Watching William tuck into his meal, I wondered—how had it come to this? I didn’t raise him to look like a vagabond. Meanwhile, Emily prattled about her job as if nothing were amiss. At last, I blurted, “William, love, what *is* this with your socks? It’s shameful!” He flushed, shrugging. “Mum, they’re just old. Haven’t had time to toss them.” No time? And Emily chimed in: “Margaret, I don’t police his wardrobe.” Don’t you? Who tends to a husband, if not his wife?
I bit my tongue, though inside, I seethed. Later, while Emily lounged in the parlour, I whispered to William, “Son, are things so hard you can’t afford socks? Or is laundry neglected?” He brushed me off. “Mum, don’t fuss. I just hadn’t noticed.” Not noticed? Those holes could be spotted from Dover! I longed to confront Emily but feared she’d shrug it off again. Instead, I rummaged through my chest, fetched a pair of new socks I’d bought for his birthday, and thrust them at him. “Put these on, for pity’s sake.” He thanked me, smiling, but I saw—it mattered not a whit to him.
I sent them home, but sleep wouldn’t come. How had this happened? Emily works, aye, and tires—but is that excuse enough? At her age, *I* worked, kept house, tended husband and child. Can she not toss socks in the wash or buy fresh ones? The shops are full of them, at every price! Or is shabbiness the fashion now? I thought of Emily, always neat as a pin, nails done, while my son dressed like a tramp. And it wasn’t just socks—it was a *symbol*. A sign she cares not a fig for him.
Next day, I rang my friend, Beatrice, to vent. She listened, then said, “Maggie, it’s not your place. They’re grown; let them sort it.” Grown? Then who *does* sort it, if not for William going about like a pauper? Bea added, “Perhaps Emily doesn’t see it as her duty. Women are different now.” Different? I’ve no quarrel with work or ambition—but basic care for one’s husband—is *that* obsolete? I don’t expect her to cook stew daily, but surely she can mend a sock!
I resolved to speak with Emily. Invited her for tea, without William. Said, “Emily, forgive me, but how can you let William wear such socks? He’s your husband.” She blinked. “Margaret, he’s a man. He chooses his clothes. I’ve nagged him to buy new ones.” A man? Then why does he dress in rags? I hinted a wife ought to mind such things, but she smiled. “We believe in equality. I don’t manage his wardrobe.” Equality? Is it equal when one’s in tatters, the other in fresh heels?
Now I wonder what to do. Part of me wants to buy William a crate of socks and wash them myself, to spare his dignity. But the other knows—it’s not my place. They must sort it themselves. I offered, “William, if money’s tight, just say. I’ll help.” He laughed. “Mum, it’s fine. They’re just old. I’ll bin them.” Bin them? Why not now? I don’t know how to reach Emily. Perhaps she truly thinks it’s not her concern. But it breaks my heart to see my son so. As if I failed to teach him pride.
For now, I hold my tongue. Invite them to supper, slip William new socks—but inside, I boil. Those socks aren’t just threadbare; they’re a symptom. Something’s amiss in their marriage, and I don’t know how to mend it without causing strife. But this I know: my son deserves better than walking about with his toes on display. And Emily might consider what it means to be a wife. Or must I do *that* for her as well?
