The Worn-Out Socks of My Son
When my son William and his wife Eleanor came to my house for supper, I’d laid the table as though for a feast—roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, mashed potatoes, and a proper garden salad, all his favourites. But when William took off his shoes in the hall, I nearly stumbled back in shock. There, on both his socks, were gaping holes, his toes poking through as if mocking all decency! I froze, thunderstruck. Was this really my son, the boy I’d raised to be tidy, to take pride in his appearance, now dressed like some vagabond? And where, pray tell, were his wife’s eyes? I tell you, it was past all bearing! Even now, the image haunts me, and I must speak my mind or burst with indignation.
I, Margaret Whitmore, had spent a lifetime ensuring William wanted for nothing. I’d stitched his shirts, bought him the finest boots even when pennies were scarce. He grew up, became an engineer, married Eleanor—a girl I’d once thought sweet and capable. They have their own home, both work, by all accounts they should be comfortable. I don’t meddle, but I invite them for supper now and then, just to see them, to treat them to a proper meal. And then—this! Those socks weren’t just holes; they were a cry for help, proof something had gone awry in their household.
It began the moment they stepped into the house. I was bustling about, setting the table, warming the plates. William slipped off his shoes, and my glance fell to his feet. At first, I thought my eyes deceived me—surely my neat, well-kept boy wouldn’t wear such rags. But no, those socks looked as though they’d survived the Blitz—holes on either side, heels worn to threads, toes wriggling free like prisoners escaping. I stood rigid, even dropped my ladle. Eleanor, catching my stare, only tittered, “Oh, Margaret, that’s all on him—I’ve told him a hundred times to buy new ones.” On him? And what, dear girl, are you here for?
All through supper, I couldn’t focus. I watched William tuck into his roast, and my mind reeled—how had it come to this? I hadn’t raised him to look like a beggar. And there sat Eleanor, prattling about her work as if nothing were amiss. At last, I could bear it no longer. “William, love,” I said, “what in heaven’s name is the matter with your socks? It’s disgraceful!” He flushed, shrugged. “Mum, really, they’re just old—I forgot to toss them.” Forgot? And Eleanor added, “Margaret, he dresses himself—I don’t police his wardrobe.” Don’t you? Then who does, if not his wife?
I bit my tongue, though my blood boiled. After supper, when Eleanor drifted to the parlour, I whispered to William, “Son, is money tight? Do you need help?” He waved me off. “Mum, don’t fuss—I just didn’t notice.” Not notice? Those holes could be spotted from Dover! I longed to confront Eleanor but feared she’d laugh it off again. Instead, I marched to my cupboard, fetched a new pair of socks I’d bought for his birthday, and thrust them at him. “Put these on—it pains me to look at those.” He smiled, thanked me, but his indifference was plain.
I let them leave, but sleep eluded me. How had this happened? True, Eleanor works, she’s tired—but is that excuse enough? In my day, I worked too, yet still kept house, tended my husband and child. Can she not manage a few pairs of socks? The shops are full of them, at every price! Or is tattered fashion the new style? I recalled how Eleanor always looks polished—hair done, nails neat—while my son shuffles about in socks unraveling at the seams. And it’s not just socks—it’s a sign. A sign she cares little for her husband.
The next day, I rang my dear friend Agnes to vent. She listened, then said, “Margaret, leave it be. They’re grown—they’ll manage.” Grown? Then who’s to manage when William goes about looking a tramp? Agnes sighed. “Perhaps Eleanor doesn’t see it as her duty. Women are different now.” Different? I’ve no quarrel with her working, building a career—but is basic care for her husband—what, outdated now? I don’t expect her to cook roasts daily, but can’t she darn a sock?
I resolved to speak to Eleanor. I rang her, invited her for tea—without William. “Eleanor,” I began gently, “forgive me, but how can you let William wear such socks? He’s your husband.” She blinked. “Margaret, he’s a man—he chooses his own clothes. I’ve told him to buy new ones.” A man? Then why doesn’t he? I hinted that a wife ought to tend to such things, but she only smiled. “We believe in equality—I don’t oversee his wardrobe.” Equality? Is it equality when one’s in rags and the other in fresh frocks?
Now I wonder what to do. Part of me wants to buy William a crate of socks and launder them myself to spare him the shame. But another part knows—it’s not my place. They must sort it themselves. I offered William, “Son, if funds are short, tell me—I’ll help.” He laughed. “Mum, it’s fine—they’re just old. I’ll toss them.” Toss them? Why not now? I don’t know how to reach Eleanor. Perhaps she truly believes this isn’t her concern. But it breaks my heart to see my son like this. It feels I’ve failed him somehow, that I never taught him to care for himself.
For now, I bite my tongue. I invite them for meals, slip William fresh socks when I can, but inside, I churn. Those socks aren’t just holes—they’re proof something’s amiss in their marriage. And I don’t know how to mend it without tearing us apart. But one thing’s certain—my son deserves better than walking about with his toes on display. And Eleanor might do well to remember what it means to be a wife. Or must I do that for her, too?
