My son has gastritis, and his wife keeps feeding him junk food. I can’t just stand by and watch…
My name is Margaret Thompson. My son, Oliver, recently turned 27. Six months ago, he married a girl named Gemma—bright, pretty, well-mannered. She’s in her final year of medical school, training to be a doctor. On paper, everything should be fine, but I just can’t shake this unease in my chest. Because, plain as day, she isn’t looking after my boy the way she ought to.
Oliver’s had chronic gastritis since he was little—inherited from his father. It’s not some trivial “stomachache” people brush off these days. It’s a proper condition that, when it flares up, turns life into absolute misery. Spring and autumn are the worst: heartburn, pain, nausea, sleepless nights. I know exactly what he goes through because I nursed him through it for years. When he lived with me, I was strict—meals on time, no fried food, no takeaways, just gentle porridges, boiled chicken, soups, and jelly. I wasn’t just feeding him; I was keeping him alive.
Before the wedding, I warned Gemma:
“Oliver’s got a sensitive stomach. You’ll need to be careful, especially when the seasons change. Please, feed him properly.”
She smiled and promised she’d handle it. I believed her.
Then, a month later, I popped round and nearly had a heart attack. The kitchen was a tip—dirty plates everywhere, the fridge stocked with nothing but ketchup, lager, and a fossilised loaf of bread. The bin was overflowing with pizza boxes and takeaway containers. The hob? Spotless. I asked:
“Where’s Oliver?”
“At work, back soon,” Gemma replied, unbothered.
“Has he eaten today?”
“Think he had… something this morning?”
My blood ran cold. I knew exactly how this would end. And I was right. Three months later—hospital. Acute flare-up. Drips, strict diet, agony. I stayed by his bed practically the whole time. Gemma? She’d drop in for an hour, two max, then vanish, muttering about “revising for exams.” It chilled me to the bone.
After he was discharged, I brought them a proper, good-quality rabbit from the butcher. Asked her to make a light soup. She nodded. A week later, I checked the freezer—there it sat, untouched, not even defrosted. Forget soup—it hadn’t even made it to the pan.
I offered to help:
“Gemma, let me cook. I know you’re busy with studies, exams—”
“No!” she snapped. “I’ve got it.”
But she hasn’t. And it kills me to watch my son—the one I spent years protecting—slide right back into the clutches of this wretched condition. And he won’t say a word. Doesn’t want to upset his wife. Doesn’t want a row. But he’s losing weight, snapping at everyone, barely sleeping.
And I won’t stay quiet. I won’t sit back while his health goes down the pan. I don’t want a feud with Gemma. Don’t want to wreck their marriage. But I refuse to watch my son suffer day after day.
I’m seriously considering talking to her mother. Maybe she can get through to her. Maybe she’ll find the words to explain that being a wife isn’t just sharing a bed and a kitchen. It’s stepping up—supporting, healing, rescuing when your husband’s ill. And if you’re training to be a doctor? Well, that just makes it worse.
I’m not the villain here. I’m just a mum. I want my son well. And if that means stepping in—so be it. I’ll cook, I’ll deliver meals daily, whatever it takes. But I won’t stand by while he fades, weakens, and suffers. Won’t stay silent while neglect does him in. Because I love my son. And I’ll fight for him—even if someone somewhere thinks that’s out of line.
