A Mothers Love
Emma, its Susan Matthews. Have you fed James today? Her voice over the phone sounded like she was asking about a forgotten kitten I might have left out on the balcony, not her thirty-two-year-old software developer son.
I closed my eyes, pressing the phone to my ear. On the kitchen table, freshly steamed salmon and broccoli were still hot. James was towelling off after his shower, looking fit and energised from his evening run.
Hello, Susan. Of course Ive fed him. Were just sitting down for dinner now.
What are you having? came the instant response. More of that grass and flavourless fish of yours? A man needs meat, Emma! Calories! I heard on TV just yesterdayskinny men die younger. Are you trying to kill him off with your diets?
James caught the familiar tune in the air, rolled his eyes, and gestured: Tell her Im not here. But, although only physically absent, his presence and his choices still hung between us like an invisible weight.
Susan, James asked for this. Hes feeling fantastic. And the doctor was really pleased with his bloodwork.
Doctors just want to scribble on paper! she scoffed. Im his mother, I can see. Hes gauntbones sticking out. He used to be such a sturdy man. Just make proper stew for him for once, Emmaon the bone! Ill bring some over tomorrow. Or are you too stingy to buy meat?
And so it went. Like clockwork, my mobile buzzed every evening at six oclock, and I knew itd be her. Susan Matthewsmy mother-in-lawchief inspector of my wifely duties.
And to think, it all started so well.
***
Eight months earlier, James had come home pale as a ghost from his work health check. He collapsed onto the sofa, unclipped his belt, and exhaled like hed run a marathon on the way home.
Em, Ive got a bit of a problem, he said quietly.
My heart dropped. Was it his heart? Liver? A thousand scary diagnoses rushed through my head.
What happened?
High blood pressure. The doc said if I dont sort myself out, Ill be on pills by forty. My cholesterols up. My sugars right at the top of normal.
James was thirty-two, six foot tall, and weighed nearly fifteen stone. His stomach hung over his belt and his face had rounded out. Five years of office work, business lunches, and a sedentary lifestyle had turned my once-fit husband into a puffy, breathless man.
You know, he went on after a pause, Im tired. Tired of struggling up the stairs. Embarrassed at the beach. Ive had enough.
I hugged him. Honestly, I didnt care how much he weighed. I loved him as he was. But if he was unhappy and it was affecting his health, then of course things had to change.
Lets do it together, I suggested, learn how to eat well, find a good gym, and Ill cook healthy food.
So we did. James joined Premier Fitness, found a coach. I downloaded healthy recipe apps, bought kitchen scales and a steamer. We shopped together, read labels, counted calories and protein.
The first month? Utter hell. James was cranky, hungry, moaned about oil-free brown rice and chicken breasts. But gradually, his body adapted. He noticed he didnt crash after lunch; stairs got easier; his jeans started getting looser.
Mornings Id make him porridge with berries and nutsfor lunch, containers packed with turkey and vegetables. Dinners were fish, salads, or the occasional baked ricotta cakes. We cut out mayo, fried food, and takeaway. At first, everything tasted bland, but soon we actually liked the flavours of real foodturns out, broccolis not bad if you cook it right.
The weight crept offslow then fast. After three months, hed lost over a stone. By six months, nearly two. Eight months onhe was twelve and a half stone. Over three stone lost!
He looked completely different. His face was sharp, cheekbones obvious, eyes brighter. Toned all over. I hardly recognised the confident, energetic man reflected in the mirror.
Friends and colleagues couldnt stop complimenting him. People at work asked for his secrets, women on the street even turned to look. I was so proud. My husband had knuckled down and done it.
That summer, Susan had been away at her sisters place in Devon for three months. Back in June, shed left James as hed always beenshe had no idea how much hed changed. We talked on the phone, sure, but thats not the same.
She came home at the start of September.
***
I remember it like it was yesterday. She turned up, unannounced, early Saturday morning. We werent even out of bed yet. James opened the door in just his pants and a t-shirt.
I heard her gasp from the bedroom.
James! Oh, my wordwhats happened to you?!
I dashed out. There she was, bags dangling from both hands, face white, eyes widelooking at her son like he was a ghost.
Mum, morning, James mumbled, half awake. Youre early.
Whats happened? she fumbled, dropping her bags to grip his shoulders as though checking he was still alive. Youve wasted away! Youre like a board! What have you done to him?!
That last part was aimed at me as I stood in my nightie, bracing for the rain of blame before Id even said a word.
Mum, honestly, Im fine, James laughed. I just lost weight. On purpose. Ive been exercising, eating right.
On purpose?! She stepped back, thoroughly horrified. Why?! You were a proper man! A real man! Now youre scrawny!
Susan, hes nothes fit! The doctors thrilled with him; his healths never been better, I ventured.
She looked at me like Id handed her poison. This is your doing, isnt it? With your diets? Were you starving him?
Mum! James frowned. Enough. I did it myself. I was fed up with being overweight.
Overweight?! she flapped. You were just well-built! A mans supposed to have some meat on him, not look like a rake!
James, at six foot and twelve and a half stone, was perfectly healthy now. But to his mum, the old chubby version was the ideal.
Shed brought a pot of hearty beef stew, roast potatoes, and a cabbage pieset it all out and ordered him to eat.
Mum, thanks, but weve eaten already, James tried gently.
Whatporridge? Thats for birdsnot breakfast! Sit down, eat properly.
He glanced at me, apologetic, then relented. He ate a bit to keep her happy. Only once shed watched every spoonful did her face relax.
Thats how you should eat, she insisted, rising. Not that rabbit food and fish. A man needs his meat, something that sticks to your ribs! Ill come over moremake sure youre eating right.
When shed left, James groaned on the sofa, clutching his stomach. Itll take me hours to digest all that. Im not used to it anymore.
The next day, the phone calls started.
***
The first was on the dot at six.
Emma, its Susan. What did James have for lunch?
I was caught off-guard. Um, he took turkey and veg in to work. Home-cooked.
Turkey? Thats dry, she said, disappointed. He needs porkbeefsomething with fat. What veg?
Peppers, tomatoes, cucumber
Thats not a meal; thats a side salad. Wheres the potatoes? The pasta? Men cant live on air, Emma.
I tried explaining carbs from grains, a balanced diet, that his coach approved the menu. She fell silent, then muttered, I raised James healthy, and look what youve done. Tomorrow Ill bring proper meatballs. Real food.
Day two. What did he eat for breakfast?
Omelettethree egg whites and wholegrain toast.
Egg whites only? Where are the yolks? Thats where the vitamins are! Are you scrimping on eggs?
No, Susan, but yolks are high in cholesterol; he needs to keep it low.
Nonsense! Thats made up by doctors to sell pills. My father ate five eggs every day and lived to eighty!
No point arguing.
Day three: Is he still going to that gym?
Yes, four times a week.
Four?! Pure horror. Thats dangerous! People drop dead doing thathis heart cant take it!
He has a personal trainer. Its all safe.
Personal trainers just want your money. Men Jamess age need to watch out, not lift weights. Dont you see youre ruining him?
I gritted my teeth. James breezed in from the gym, all smiles. He felt great, blood pressure normal, energy for daysand yet his mum believed he was on deaths door.
Day four she rang at eight in the morning: Emma, do you think James has worms? People lose weight from that.
I nearly dropped the phone. He does not.
Have you checked? Any tests?
No, because hes healthy!
Test him anywaycheck his thyroid. His stomach. What if its an ulcer?
I handed the phone to James. He tried to reassure her, explain it was all intentional and managed. She listened, then finished, You dont understand what theyre doing to you. Ill drop round tonight.
And she didbearing pilau rice and pastries. James couldnt refuse outrightate a token amount, shot me a sheepish look. He was uncomfortable. He didnt want to upset her. Or me.
When she left, he admitted, Shes on her own now. Old-fashioned. Shell settle down eventually.
She wont, unless you set boundaries, I warned.
Shell adapt.
But she didnt. The daily calls continued, sometimes twice a day, her questions becoming more and more ridiculous.
Have you got hot water? Maybe James is losing weight from cold showers.
Does he ask for food at night? Are you denying him supper?
I heard those protein shakes are dangerous. Is he drinking them? Its all chemicals!
She phoned everyone in the family, moaning James was wasting away and I was starving him. One day, his aunt rang James at work, offering to help.
Help with what? he asked.
Mum says youre really illneed a doctor or money for treatment?
He was furious, rang his mother to tell her to stop spreading tales. She cried, said he didnt love her, she lay awake worrying, hed be the death of her.
He gave in, apologised, promised more visits.
***
A week later we went round. James put on his old shirtit hung off him like a bedsheet. Susan greeted us with a feast: roast chicken, chips, retro salad, pie, cake.
Sit, James. Eat up. You need fattening up.
It was a traprefuse and thered be a row; eat, and all our work would be undone.
He picked at some chicken, ate only the salad (no mayo). Skipped the chips and cake. Susans face turned to stone.
Wont try my pie? I made it for you, James. Up at six baking.
Mum, I cant. Im eating healthy.
Healthy! Thats no food, its starvation! Look at you! Skin and bone! She turned to me. Youre pushing him! Youre so thin yourself, you want him the same.
I choked on my tea. Susan, hes doing this for himself
He is not! Men dont decide what they eatwives do! All you feed him is leaves. I see your packed lunches. Nothing but salad!
Theyre balancedprotein, grains, veg
I dont come to your work telling you how to do your job. Dont tell me how to feed my son! Ive done it for thirty-two years; hes always been healthy! Now youve turned him into an invalid in a year!
James stood up. Mum, enough. Emmas not to blame.
Of course, take your wifes side! Youre all she has; after your dad died, I raised you alone, and now you listen to her
She never finished, but the meaning lingered.
We left in silence. James clutched the steering wheel, jaw clenched. I stared out, boiling inside.
That evening she called to apologise.
Im sorry, Emma. I didnt mean to upset you. You know, Im just a mum who cares. It hurts seeing my boy like thishe was so handsome; now
Hes still handsome, I said firmly.
For you, maybe. But everyone says hes shrunk. Hes barely recognisable. People must think youre struggling, not enough money to feed him.
We have everything we need.
Then why isnt he eating properly?
I was exhausted. Tired of explaining and justifying, tired of being painted an unfit wife.
***
It kept goingdaily phone calls: What am I cooking? Has James eaten enough, does his head spin, has his tummy hurt? Every step scrutinised.
One day, she even phoned my work. My colleague handed the phone over looking baffled.
Emma, Susan Matthews. James isnt answering his mobile. Is he all right?
My stomach knotted.
I dont knowIm at work too. Ill ring him now.
James picked up immediately.
Hey, love. Whats up?
Your mum is panickingyoure not answering your phone.
Oh, sorrysilent for a meeting.
I rang Susan back. She sighed with relief.
Oh, thank goodnessI thought hed passed out. You know, fasting can make people faint.
Hes not starving, Susan!
You say so, she hesitated. I watched a programme. Rapid weight loss is dangerousstretched skin, organs shifting. Has James been to the GP since he lost it?
He has. Hes fine.
What sort of doctor?
A GP.
What about a gastroenterologist? A cardiologist? Endocrinologist?
Why? He feels great!
For now. She was ominous. I knew someone who lost weightgot an ulcer within a year.
I hung up, pressed my face in my hands. Colleagues gave me sympathetic looks.
Mother-in-law? someone guessed.
I nodded.
Mine was the same. She checked the floors, stomped shirts. I told my husband: your mum or me. He picked me. She sulked for six months, then moved on.
I couldnt give James that ultimatum. Susan had no one elseher husband died ten years ago, she only had James. He was her everything. I understood she was frightened of losing him, of him changing, drifting away. But I couldnt take it any longer.
That night I told James:
We have to talk.
His eyes narrowed.
About your mum. I cant do it anymore. The daily calls, the constant control, blaming me for starving youits too much.
Shes worried, Em.
I get itbut her worries cant ruin our lives! Dont you see? She treats me like Im a lousy babysitter.
She doesnt mean it
Then why does she call every day, bring stews like I cant cook, ring my work? Tell her to stop calling me. If she wants to know stuff, call you. Not me.
Okay, he said quietly. Ill talk to her.
He did. He asked her not to call me at work. She paused for two daysthen started calling him instead. Five times a day. He got stressed, snappy. One night he flung his phone onto the sofa, swearing.
Thats it! Enough! I cant cope!
Whats wrong?
Shes calling morning, noon, night! Asking if Im about to faint! Am I dying or what?!
I hugged him.
Its time for a proper chattogether. Lay it all out: youre healthy, its your choice, she needs to respect that.
She wont understand, he said, lost.
Well try.
***
We arranged to go over that Saturday. Shed set the table, of course. But this time, James didnt even sit.
Mum, we need to talk, he started.
She froze, plate of pastries in hand.
About what?
These last couple of months. The calls. Your attitude to Emma. Youre not accepting my choices.
She put the plate down, pale.
I dont know what you mean.
Mum, you ring daily. You check what I eat. Deliver food I dont want. Blame Emma for robbing me. It has to stop.
She blanched.
I just care for you. Im your mum. Thats my right.
Worry awaybut not micro-manage. Im thirty-two. Ive got my own family now. I decide how I live.
Is it your decision or hers? She shot me a look.
Mum!
No, tell me! You used to love my food. Loved my cooking. Now you turn your nose up at everything. Shes brainwashed you with these diets!
No ones brainwashed me. I wanted to be healthy. The doctor said I was at risk. Ive changed, and its all positive. I feel brilliant. Check-ups are great. Cant you see?
I see youve lost over three stone. Your face is drawn. You dont look like you.
I look like my real self. Mum, I was overweightbreathless on stairs. Thats not normal at my age.
You were fine, she muttered. Men should be robust.
No, I was unfit. And I fixed it.
She burst into tears, sat down, wiping her eyes.
Im scared, she sobbed. Scared youll get ill or something will happen to you. Youre all I have left. If you go, I cant cope.
James sat beside her, squeezed her hand.
Mum, nothing bads going to happen. Quite the oppositethe GP said if I hadnt changed, Id be on blood pressure tablets by forty, maybe worse: heart attack, stroke. Those are the real risks.
What if youve gone too far? What if thats dangerous too?
It isnt. My BMIs spot ontwelve and a half stone at six foot. Could even drop a bit more, but Im comfortable now.
She looked down at her hands.
Whats with you and the gym, the strange food? People never used to fuss so much in my day.
I spoke up gently. Back then, people walked everywhere, had physical jobsless sitting, less processed food, less sugar. These days, youve got to exercise and watch what you eat to stay healthy.
She stared at me, and I felt for herher pain, her bafflement.
Youre taking my son from me, she said, quietly.
I was taken aback.
How? Hell always be your son. No ones taking him away.
He used to come over, eat my food, chat for hours. I felt needed. Now he visits, eats nothing, and I feel like a stranger.
Susan, I said, sitting opposite. It isnt about food. Love isnt measured in cakes. James loves you, truly. But he cant eat stuff that isnt good for him just to prove that. He wants time with youtalk, walks, films, whatever. But without the stress, the pressure and guilt.
She searched my face for a long minute. I could see her fighting between old habit and new understanding.
I didnt mean to upset you, she whispered. I just didnt know what else to do or how to make him eat.
Hes eating just fine. Just differently.
James hugged his mums shoulders.
Mum, if you want to cook for us, make something healthy. Emmas got some great recipes. Or come round and well cook together. But please stop calling Emma every day about what I eat. It feels underminingfor both of us.
Susan dabbed her eyes. Ill try.
We left quietly, but I felt hope flicker again. In the car, James squeezed my hand.
Thanks for keeping your cool. I know its been hard for you.
It has, I said, but I think its even harder for her. Shes just afraid of not being needed anymore.
She wont be.
Thats for you to show her not me.
***
For a week, radio silence. I started to hope. But then, eight days in, the phone rang just past five-thirty.
Emma, its Susan.
I tensed.
Hi.
I was thinking how about you and James come over Sunday? Ill make baked fish with veggies. Found a recipe onlinealmost no oil. And a salad. They say its good for you.
My breath caught. Wed love to.
Andumsorry for everything. I only panicked because I thought I was losing him.
Youre not, Susan.
I know that now.
She rang off. I sat on the kitchen chair, phone still in my hand. James came out from the shower, saw my face.
Whats happened?
Your mums invited us for Sunday dinner. Wants to do baked fish.
He grinned. Shes giving it a go.
Yeah. She really is.
Of course, Saturday night she rang again, anxious.
Emma, sorry, butcan James eat carrots? And beetroot? The recipe says theyre a bit sugary.
I sighed. Yes, Susan. In moderation.
How much is moderate? Hundred grams? Two hundred?
One hundreds great.
And which fish is bestsalmon or cod? Salmons quite fatty, isnt it?
Salmons fineits the good kind of fat.
Oh. I thought fat was bad. Right, Ill get salmon. One more thingthis buckwheat you eat, am I boiling it in water? Any butter allowed?
I realised this would be a long road. That she wouldnt stop fretting and checking overnight. But at least now she was trying to understand. That was serious progress.
In water, Susan. And a tiny knob of butter is fine.
Got it. Thanks, Emma. Hope Im not a nuisance?
Not at all.
I just want it to all come out right. For you both.
Well love it.
She thanked me and hung up.
James shook his head, having heard all this.
Shell ask about healthy eating every time now, wont she?
Looks that way.
Better than all the guilt trips?
Much better.
***
Sunday at Susans was a different world. Modest tablearomatic salmon, grilled veg, buckwheat, crisp salad, a tiny symbolic cake.
I tried hard, she said as we sat, let me know if its all wrong.
James tasted the fish, closed his eyes. Mum, this is lovely.
Her face lit up. Really? I kept it in twenty-five minutes instead of twentywas worried itd be underdone.
Perfect, I agreed. Susan, you did brilliantly.
She blushed, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Youll have to show me those protein shakes of yours. Will you?
Of course.
We ate and chattedSusan sharing neighbour gossip, stories from her allotment, her latest binge on EastEnders. She didnt ask how much James ate, didnt pile his plate, didnt push pudding on him. She was just there.
When we left, she hugged me. Really hugged me.
Thank you, she said in my ear, for not giving up on me. For helping me understand.
Itll be okay soon, I promised.
In the car, James took my hand. Maybe things are turning round.
Maybe.
But three days later, the phone rang right on six. My stomach twisted at the name.
Emma, its Susan. Have you fed James today?
I froze.
Yes, Susan. I have.
What did you have?
Thats when I realiseditd never fully stop. Shed always ring, maybe less often, or for different reasons. But for her, it was how she stayed involved, convinced herself she was needed, loved.
If you want to know what James eats, ask him, I said gently but firmly. Hes a grown man. He can tell you.
But
No, Susan. I wont give you a running commentary on every meal. If youre worried, come round. See for yourself. But no more daily cross-examinations, please.
She was silent. I heard her breathing.
Youre right, she whispered. Sorry. Its just habit.
Habits can change.
They can, she admitted. Ill try.
And hung up.
James popped in, eyebrows raised. All good?
Not sure, I admitted. But I finally said what needed saying.
He wrapped me in a hug.
Im proud of you.
Im just tired. Tired of fighting to be your wife instead of someones childcare report.
I should have stood up for you sooner. I will now.
***
A week. No calls. Another. I dared to hope the boundary would last.
But come Friday nighta knock on the door. Its Susan, little bag in hand.
Hi Emma, hope Im not intruding?
No, come through, Susan.
She took off her shoes, came to the kitchen, fished a container from her bag.
I made you a vegetable stew. Hardly any oil. Thought you might like it.
James hugged her. Thanks, Mum.
Oh, its nothing. Im learning to cook your way now. Dont judge!
We ate her stew for tea. It was lovely. Susan watched us, beaming.
You like it?
Very much, James said.
She relaxed. Im glad.
She left after an hourno inspections, no lectures, just chatting, just tea.
When the door closed, James hugged me from behind.
She really is changing.
I smiled into his hands. It seems so.
But I knew it was a fragile truce. Old habits clutch hard. The fight for our own space, for respect, wasnt over. But at least now I knew I could draw my lines. That I didnt have to justify myself, I didnt have to put up with accusations. I have a right to life with my husbandand he has my back.
Six oclock Monday, my mobile rang.
Susan.
I answered.
Emma, its me. Sorry to bother you, just wanted to know are you free at the weekend? Maybe you could come over and show me those flourless cottage cheese pancakes you make?
I breathed out.
Of course, Susan. Well come.
She said goodbye and hung up.
James raised an eyebrow.
Progress?
A little, I laughed. But its progress.
He kissed the top of my head.
Shes trying.
She is.
And deep down, I hoped one day the calls would just be conversations. No anxiety, no control, no reaching for whats gone, but simply talkingpeople loving each other, trying to learn a new way to connect.
And for now, while the phone was silent, healthy dinner cooling on the kitchen side, and outside, the long English dusk stretched onI stood by my husband, knowing the battle wasnt won, but not lost either. Wed drawn the line, together, on our own side.
