**My Son’s Holey Socks**
When my son James and his wife Emily came over for dinner, I laid out a proper feast—roast beef, mashed potatoes, Yorkshire puddings, everything he loves. But the moment James kicked off his shoes in the hallway, I nearly fainted. Both his socks were riddled with holes, his toes poking through like they were demanding an escape! I stood frozen, utterly gobsmacked. Is this really my son, the boy I raised to be tidy and presentable, walking around like some ragamuffin? And where, pray tell, were Emily’s eyes? This isn’t just sloppy—it’s downright shameful. Even now, I can’t shake the image, and if I don’t vent, I’ll burst.
I—Margaret Thompson—spent my life making sure James wanted for nothing. Sewed his school shirts, bought him the best Clarks shoes even when money was tight. He grew up, became an engineer, married Emily—a girl I once thought was sweet and capable. They have their own flat, both work decent jobs, everything *should* be fine. I don’t meddle, but I invite them for Sunday roasts to dote on them a bit. And then—*this*. Those socks weren’t just worn; they were a cry for help, proof something’s gone wrong in their home.
It started when they arrived. I was bustling about, plating food, warming the gravy. James shucked off his brogues, and I caught a glimpse of his feet. At first, I thought my eyes deceived me—no way my neat-freak son would wear such rags. But no, those socks looked like they’d survived the Blitz—holes at the heels, threads unravelling, toes wriggling free. I dropped a spoon. Emily, noticing my stare, giggled. “Oh, Margaret, *he* did this—I’ve told him a hundred times to buy new ones.” *He* did? And you, dear, just *watched*?
Over dinner, I couldn’t focus. James wolfed down his roast while Emily nattered about her marketing job like nothing was amiss. Finally, I snapped. “James, love, what *is* this with your socks? It’s embarrassing!” He shrugged. “Mum, relax—just old ones I forgot to bin.” *Forgot*? Emily chimed in, “Margaret, he dresses himself—I’m not his wardrobe keeper.” Aren’t you? Who *else* looks after a husband if not his wife?
I bit my tongue, but inside, I was livid. After pudding, while Emily lounged with tea, I pulled James aside. “Son, are you skint? Can’t afford socks? Or is no one doing the washing?” He waved me off. “Mum, drop it. I just didn’t notice.” *Didn’t notice*? Those holes were big enough to spot from space! I wanted to confront Emily, but feared she’d brush it off. Instead, I dug out a pair of new socks—good John Lewis ones I’d bought for his birthday—and shoved them at him. “Put these on. It’s painful to look at you.” He thanked me, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.
I sent them home, but I tossed all night. How could this happen? Emily works hard, sure, but is that an excuse? In my day, I worked *and* kept house *and* made sure my husband looked decent. Can’t she chuck a few socks in the wash? Or pop into M&S? Or is *this* the fashion now—looking like a tramp? Emily’s always pristine, nails done, yet my son’s dressed like a charity shop reject. And it’s not *just* socks—it’s a sign. A sign she doesn’t give a damn.
Next morning, I rang my mate Dorothy to rant. She sighed. “Maggie, it’s not your place. They’re grown; let them sort it.” *Grown*? Who sorts it when James is half a step from *barefoot*? Dorothy added, “Maybe Emily doesn’t see it as her job. Women are different now.” *Different*? Fine, chase careers—but is basic care *obsolete*? I don’t expect her to bake pies daily, but *mend a sock*!
I invited Emily for tea—just us. “Emily, forgive me, but how can you let James walk around like that? He’s your *husband*.” She blinked. “Margaret, he’s a big boy. He chooses his clothes. I’ve told him to buy new socks.” *Chooses*? And you don’t see *holes*? I hinted wives should handle such things, but she smiled. “We’re equals. I don’t police his wardrobe.” *Equals*? One in rags, the other in new Louboutins?
Now I’m torn. Part of me wants to buy James a dozen packs of socks and wash them myself. But the other part knows—it’s not my fight. I offered James cash. “Son, if you’re strapped, just say.” He laughed. “Mum, I’m fine. They’re just old—I’ll bin them.” *When*? Why not *now*? Emily’s dug in her heels. Maybe she truly believes it’s not her duty. But it *hurts*, seeing my son like this. Did I fail? Not teach him better?
For now, I hold my tongue. Sunday roasts, sly sock gifts, simmering silently. Those holes aren’t just fabric—they’re a crack in their marriage. And I can’t fix it without making things worse. But one thing’s clear: my boy deserves better than flaunting his toes. And Emily? She ought to learn what being a wife *means*. Or must I do *that* for her too?
