My son has gastritis, and his wife feeds him nothing but fast food. I can’t bear to watch it any longer…
My name is Margaret Whitmore. My son William recently turned twenty-seven. Six months ago, he married a girl named Emily. She’s clever, pretty, and well-mannered. She’s in her final year at medical school, training to be a doctor. On the surface, everything should be fine—but I can’t shake this unease in my heart. Because I see it now—she doesn’t care for my son the way she should.
William has suffered from chronic gastritis since childhood. Hereditary, from his father. It’s not just some passing stomachache, like people nowadays seem to think. It’s a condition that, when it flares, can make life unbearable. Spring and autumn are the worst—heartburn, pain, sickness, sleepless nights. I know what he goes through because I nursed him through it for years. When he lived with me, I kept him strict routine: bland, careful meals, nothing fried, no takeaways, eating at set times—porridge, boiled meats, soups, jelly. I didn’t just feed him. I protected him.
Before the wedding, I warned Emily:
“William has a sensitive stomach. You must be careful, especially when the seasons change. Please, feed him properly.”
She smiled and promised she’d keep an eye on it. I believed her.
But a month later, I visited and was horrified. Dirty plates in the sink, nothing in the fridge but ketchup, beer, and a stale loaf. The bin overflowed with pizza boxes and takeaway containers. The stove—spotless. I asked:
“Where’s William?”
“At work,” Emily said casually. “He’ll be back soon.”
“Has he eaten today?”
“Think he grabbed something… this morning.”
My blood ran cold. I knew how this would end. And I was right. Three months later—hospital. A violent flare-up. Drips, strict diet, agony. I stayed by his side nearly the whole time. Emily visited for an hour, two at most, then rushed off, saying she had “revision to do.” It chilled me.
When he came home, I brought them a proper rabbit from the butcher’s—good quality, fresh—and asked her to make a light broth. She nodded. A week later, I checked the freezer. The rabbit sat untouched, still frozen solid. Never mind the broth.
I offered help:
“Emily, let me cook. I know you’re busy with exams—”
“No need,” she cut in. “I’ve got it.”
But she hasn’t. And it breaks my heart to see my son—the one I guarded for years—slip back into the grip of this illness. He won’t complain. Doesn’t want to upset her. Doesn’t want a row. But he’s losing weight, snapping at nothing, barely sleeping again.
I can’t stay quiet. Can’t watch his health crumble before me. I don’t want to fight with Emily. Don’t want to ruin their marriage. But I won’t stand by while he grows weaker by the day.
I’m considering speaking 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 tending, healing, saving when the other is unwell. And if you’re training to be a doctor—all the more reason.
I’m not her enemy. I’m just a mother. I want my son well. And if I must step in to make that happen, I will. Cook for him myself, deliver meals daily—whatever it takes. I won’t stand by while he pales and withers. Won’t stay silent while neglect ruins him. I love my son. And I’ll fight for him, even if it seems wrong to some.
