I still recall, as if it were yesterday, the day my only son, Thomas, turned twentyseven. It was barely six months ago that he took his vows with his bride, Emily Clarke, a bright young woman from a respectable family. As a wedding present, Emilys parents handed her a tidy twobedroom flat in a leafy suburb of Leeds, and the couple have been living there ever since.
There is no particular grievance I hold against Emily. She is pleasant, clever, and striking, the daughter of a doctor, David Clarke, and a schoolmistress, Helen Clarke. She herself is completing her medical studies at Oxford. Yet my thoughts are ever drawn to Thomas, for he suffers from a chronic inflammation of the stomach, a hereditary malady that has plagued both his father and now him. He must take his medicine each spring and autumn and watch his diet with the utmost care.
When Thomas still lived under my roof, I tended to his meals, ensuring they were gentle on his stomach. Upon his marriage I warned Emily straight away that she ought to prepare his food in a dietappropriate way. She nodded in agreement, yet nothing changed.
I try not to meddle in their private lives, and I visit them only on rare occasions. Each time I step through their door, however, I am met with a mountain of empty pizza boxes, which they claim are the remnants of friends visits. The refrigerator, when I open it, holds naught but slices of sausage, blocks of cheese, bottles of ketchup and jars of mayonnaiseno soup, no fruit, no yogurt, no fresh dairy, no eggs.
I once bought a selection of meatrabbit, turkey, and chickenand asked Emily to make a nourishing broth for Thomas. The meat remains frozen, untouched, in the freezer. I understand that Emily is still young, perhaps short of time, but I was a mother at her age, caring for two children on my own. It pains me to think she cannot even look after her husbands health.
So I offered my help: If you find yourself overwhelmed, let me step in. Allow me to cook and bring in food. Yet Emily always declines. Thomas remains silent, saying nothing at all. Not long ago he spent a night in the Leeds General Infirmary with an acute flareup of his gastritis.
I am at a loss for what more I can do to alter this course. I do not wish to sour my relationship with my daughterinlaw, nor to stir up further tension, but the fact that she does not heed my concerns wounds me deeply. My son’s wellbeing haunts me, and I am uncertain how to reach Emily.
If anyone could give me a word of advice, I would be most grateful.
