Oh, it’s just breaking my heart—my son’s got chronic gastritis, and his wife keeps feeding him takeaways. I can’t just sit back and watch this…
My name’s Margaret Thompson. My son, Oliver, just turned 27. Six months ago, he married a lovely girl named Emily. She’s clever, pretty, well-mannered—studying to be a doctor, in her final year at medical school. On paper, everything’s perfect, but I can’t shake this feeling in my chest. She isn’t looking after him the way she should.
Oliver’s had gastritis since he was little—runs in the family, from his dad’s side. It’s not just some little tummy ache people brush off these days. When it flares up, it’s pure agony—heartburn, vomiting, sleepless nights. I know because I spent years nursing him through it. When he lived with me, I kept him on a strict routine: bland meals, no fried food, no rubbish, eating at set times. Porridge, boiled chicken, soups, jelly—I wasn’t just feeding him; I was keeping him safe.
Before the wedding, I told Emily straight: “Oliver’s stomach is delicate. You’ve got to be careful, especially when the seasons change. Please, feed him properly.” She smiled and promised she’d handle it. I believed her.
But a month later, I popped round and nearly gasped. The kitchen was a mess—dirty plates everywhere, fridge empty except for ketchup, beer, and a stale loaf. The bin was full of pizza boxes and chicken nugget wrappers. The stove hadn’t been touched. I asked, “Where’s Oliver?”
“At work,” Emily said, barely glancing up. “He’ll be back soon.”
“Has he eaten today?”
“Oh, he had… something this morning.”
My blood ran cold. I knew where this was headed. And sure enough, three months later—hospital. Acute flare-up. Drips, strict diet, him writhing in pain. I stayed by his bed most nights. Emily? She’d visit for an hour or two, then rush off, saying she had “revision” for her exams. It terrified me.
After he was discharged, I brought them a proper, good-quality chicken from the butcher—asked her to make a light broth. She nodded. A week later, I checked the freezer—the chicken was still there, untouched, not even thawed. Forget about any soup.
I offered to help: “Emily, let me cook. I know you’re busy with uni, exams—”
“No!” she cut me off. “I’ve got it.”
But she hasn’t got it. And it kills me to watch my son—the boy I spent years protecting—slide back into that place where his illness takes over. He won’t say a word, doesn’t want to upset her, avoids conflict. But he’s losing weight, snapping at everyone, not sleeping.
And I can’t stay quiet. I won’t stand by while his health crumbles. I don’t want to fight with Emily. I don’t want to wreck their marriage. But I refuse to watch him get worse every day.
I’m seriously thinking of talking to her mum. Maybe she can get through to her. Maybe she can make Emily understand that being a wife isn’t just sharing a bed and a table—it’s stepping up when your husband’s unwell. And if you’re training to be a doctor? Even more reason.
I’m not the villain here. I’m just his mum. I want my son healthy. And if that means stepping in, I will. I’ll cook every meal myself if I have to. But I won’t watch him turn pale, weak, and miserable again. I won’t stay silent while neglect chips away at him. Because I love my son. And I’ll fight for him—even if someone thinks that’s wrong.
