My son became a henpecked man. That woman rules over everything, and I dare not even speak a word: the pain of a mother who no longer recognises her own child.
The day Jeremy wed, I barely knew my future daughter-in-law. Only a fortnight had passed since they’d met, and truth be told, my first impression was uneasy. Vulgar makeup, a garish dress, pursed lips—none of it spoke of grace, only of indolence. A refusal to lift a finger. A habit of taking, never giving.
I met her parents right outside the registry office. They spoke with feigned politeness, arrived in a flash motor, though I later learned it was hired—a common cab wouldn’t do for their pride. My husband and I exchanged a glance: it was plain generosity wouldn’t be their strong suit. The wedding, mind you, was paid for entirely by us.
We’d moved to the city shortly before Jeremy was born. He grew up a sensitive, gentle lad. He wrote poetry, took small things to heart. Country life might’ve toughened him into a proper man, but the city left him tender. By twenty-six, he’d only had three women in his life, and even then, I only caught wind of them through hushed phone talks. He was never one to open up.
He carried on as most lads do—came home tipsy now and then, reeking of fags, though he gave that up later. After the wedding, they stayed with us. We’ve a three-bed, so my husband and I took the small room, left the large one for the newlyweds. We didn’t mind—so long as they were happy. But peace never came. Endless rows. Or rather, one voice—shrill, petulant, demanding. Hers. Emily’s.
What her parents gave them, I’ve no notion. We handed them an envelope with a tidy sum. Relatives, I later learned, did the same. But gratitude? Never a word of it.
Emily barely left the bedroom. Lived off takeaways. Worked as a nail technician and couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger at home. Housework was “beneath her.” My son ate what he bought himself or finished our meals—quietly, eyes downcast. He was ashamed. This wasn’t love. This was servitude.
Then they moved out. Rented a place near her salon. And there she was—the “generous soul”—sitting with us for tea and cake, the first time in months. I was stunned—wasn’t she watching her figure? As she climbed into the car, I caught a flicker of disdain in her eyes. Or perhaps I imagined it. But that feeling—like a knife to the ribs—lingered.
Yesterday, I visited them. Emily, of course, was at work. Jeremy greeted me. Exhausted, listless. Offered tea—just back from work, nothing to eat. Good thing I’d brought a bag full of food—at least the fridge was stocked now.
Turns out, he takes the bus to work now. The car stays with Emily—“she needs it for clients, how else would she manage?” The salon, mind you, is a five-minute walk. Too much effort, too inconvenient. Him? On foot, rain or frost. Because that’s what suits her.
Then, it slipped out—he’s in debt. Several loans. One for a holiday to Spain. Not for them both. For her. She was “exhausted,” so she jetted off with a friend. I didn’t ask who this “friend” was. I saw him flinch at such questions. Saw him suffer in silence.
I came home and wept. Told my husband everything. He just waved a hand: “I knew it’d end like this from the start.” But I care. I’m his mother. I didn’t raise my son to become some woman’s shadow.
Now, I daren’t even speak my mind. Afraid Emily will kick up another fuss. Afraid I’ll lose him for good. It hurts. I feel helpless. Where did I go wrong? Why didn’t I teach him to be a man? Why is my son so henpecked?
The worst of it? I can’t change a thing. Only watch as my boy fades into a shadow, and wait. Wait for him to realise he’s living someone else’s life. Please, just not too late.
