I’m at a Loss: My Son Always Stands by His Wife, Even When She’s in the Wrong

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 5 minViews 2

I dont know what to do. My son always sides with his wifeeven when shes in the wrong, Margaret Anderson, sixty, sobs, her voice trembling. My son, Michael, defends Emily absolutely every single time. No matter what happens, no matter what I say, he just waves his hand and says, Mum, dont worry, Emily will sort it out. Shes not foolish. He always finds an excuse for her, even when shes clearly wrong!

Emily, Margarets daughterinlaw, is twentyeight. She and Michael share the care of their eighteenmonthold son, Paul, and they live in a modest flat they bought on a mortgage in a suburb of London. Emily is on maternity leave; Michael is the sole breadwinner. They get by on a tight budget, careful but never in want.

But Margaret cant stomach Emily at all.

When Michael first brought her home, I was stunned, Margaret recalls. She had long, fake nails, a tattoo up her neck, a short skirt, heels that looked like they belonged on a runway. And those lipsobviously done up. I thought he was joking. My son couldnt possibly be dating someone so frivolous, to put it mildly.

A month later they were married. By Margarets account, Emily turned up at the ceremony looking daringleather skirt, glittery top, stagelight makeup. Michael was happy, and Margaret decided to stay silent, to keep out of it.

At first she barely spoke to her daughterinlaw, calling Michael a couple of times a month just to ask how things were going. Everything changed a year and a half ago when Paul was born.

I showed up the second day after they were discharged, and what do I see? Emily with a fresh manicure. I told her, Emily, have you lost your mind? Thats dangerous for a baby! She replied, Its under control, Ive got this. I went to Michael, and he snapped, Mum, stay out of it. This isnt your business. And thats how it has always beenno matter what I say, I hear, Dont interfere.

Margaret tried to educate her daughterinlaw with tips, remarks, even scoldings, only to be met with indifference. Emily never backs down.

I walk into their flat and its a mess. I say, Emily, make a soup for the boy. Michael works. She answers, Michael doesnt eat soup. How can that be? He eats everything! Its just laziness. If she cooked properly, hed have both soup and borscht on the table.

Margaret begged Michael to listen. As always, Michael rose to Emilys defence.

Mum, stop picking at us. Everythings fine. Emilys a good mother.

A good mother? Margaret exclaims. She never puts the phone down! I havent seen her without a gadget for ages. Shes scrolling through Instagram even when the babys right there.

The last straw came on a playground.

I knocked, but there was silence. I thought they were out. I went to the little park by the block and saw Paul digging in the sand while Emily sat on a bench, eyes glued to her phone. I got closer, and the boy stood by the fence, then ran to me, smiling, calling Grandma! Emily didnt even turn. He bolted onto the road! Its a quiet street, but anything could happen.

Thank heavens, Emily whispered, shaking, there were no cars at that moment. I grabbed Paul, ran to her, and she sat there as if in a trance. I leaned in and said, If you dont put that phone away right now, Ill smash it on the pavement! Are you a mother or what?

Emily sprang up, snatched Paul, and fled. The child cried, reaching for me, but she slammed the door shut and never opened it again.

I called Michael, told him everything, Margaret continues, and he said, Mum, youve gone too far. Calm down. Emily can handle it. How can he say that? I saw it with my own eyes! He doesnt believe me. Now neither of them talks to me, answers my calls, or opens the door. A month has passed. I have no idea what she whispered to him, but I just want my grandson safe.

Margaret wonders: Maybe Michaels right? Maybe I should have kept quiet? But I cant stay silent when a childs safety is at stake. Im a mother, a grandmother.

Now she sits alone, phone switched off, her sonwhom she raisedstanding forever on his wifes side. Always.

Towards a New Chapter: “Mum, how much longer must we stay in this backwater? We’re not just in the sticks—we’re in the sticks of the sticks,” sang my daughter Masha as she returned from a coffee shop. “I’ve told you a hundred times—this is our home, our roots. I’m not going anywhere,” I replied from my place on the sofa, legs propped up like what I call the ‘Queen’s gymnast pose.’ “Roots, roots… Give it ten more years and you’ll wilt, and then another ‘beetle’ will show up for you to introduce as my new dad.” After those painful words, I stared at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. “My roots are just fine, don’t exaggerate…” “That’s what I’m saying—right now they’re normal, but soon enough you’ll have to decide if you’re a turnip, pumpkin, or sweet potato—whatever takes your chef’s fancy.” “If you want to move, go yourself, darling. You’re legally an adult. Why do you need me?” “For peace of mind, Mum. If I leave for a better life, who’ll look after you?” “My insurance, my salary, the internet—there’ll be another beetle, like you said. It’s easy for you, being young and savvy. I’m already halfway to Valhalla.” “But you joke like my friends and you’re barely forty…” “Why say that out loud? Just to ruin my day?” “In cat years, that’s only five,” she quipped. “You’re forgiven.” “Mum, while there’s still time, let’s hop on a train and go. There’s nothing here for us.” “I only just got them to spell our name right on the gas bill and we’re registered at the clinic here,” I protested with my last arguments. “They’ll take us anywhere with our NHS numbers. We don’t have to sell—if it doesn’t work out, we’ve somewhere to come back to. I’ll show you how to REALLY live, Mum.” “My sonographer said you’d never let me rest. Thought it was a joke—until he won bronze on ‘Britain’s Got Psychics’. Alright, we’ll go, but if it all goes wrong, promise you’ll let me come back in peace.” “Pinky swear!” “Your co-creator made that same promise at the registry office, and look how that turned out.” *** Masha and her mum skipped the county town and headed straight for London. After emptying three years’ savings, they splurged on a studio flat out in Zone 6, squeezed between a market and the bus station, and paid four months’ rent up front. The money ran low before they’d even started spending. Masha was calm and full of energy. She skipped the tedious unpacking and dove straight into the city’s creative, social, and nightlife scene. She blended in fast, mastering local slang and style as if she’d lived here forever, not just beamed in from some parallel suburb of the universe. Meanwhile, Mum lived between morning cups of herbal tea and evening chamomile. She ignored Masha’s pleas to go exploring and instead scoured job sites, only to find salaries and vacancies that made no sense together and felt like a trap. Her prediction: they’d last six months, tops, before heading home. She brushed off her daughter’s ‘modern’ criticism and landed a job as a cook at a private school, plus evenings washing dishes at a café. “Mum, you’re back at the stove round the clock! Might as well never have left. Why not retrain—become a graphic designer, a sommelier, or even a brow stylist? Ride the Tube, drink overpriced coffee, adapt!” “I’m not ready. But don’t worry about me, love—I’ll manage. Just get yourself sorted.” Masha set about fitting in: holing up in cafés on the tabs of other regional migrants, building mental and mystical ties with the city as decreed by a rune-reading blogger, and hanging out in groups where only money and ‘success’ were discussed. She wasn’t rushing into work or relationships; she and the city needed to grow into each other first. Four months in, Mum paid the rent from her own earnings, quit dishwashing and started cooking for an extra school. Masha meanwhile dropped several courses, auditioned at a local radio station, appeared as an extra in a student film where they paid her in pasta, and briefly dated two aspiring musicians—one a complete donkey, the other a family man (and a real ‘tomcat’ in every sense) who wasn’t looking to settle. *** “Mum, fancy going out tonight? Or shall we get pizza and watch a film? I’m too knackered to move,” yawned Masha, sprawled on the sofa in the ‘Queen’s gymnast pose’ as Mum did her makeup. “You order, I’ll transfer you some money—don’t worry about me, I’m not likely to be hungry when I get back.” “Back from where?” Masha sat up straight, frowning. “I’ve been invited out to dinner,” Mum replied with a shy giggle. “By who?” Masha couldn’t muster any excitement. “We had an inspection at school. I served the head of the commission your childhood-favourite meatballs. He joked about meeting the chef, and one thing led to another—we grabbed a coffee, like you always say to. Tonight I’m cooking dinner at his.” “Are you mad? Going to a stranger’s house? For dinner!” “So what?” “You know he’s not just after your lasagne, right?” “Darling. I’m forty, single, he’s forty-five, clever and not married. Honestly, I’ll be happy with whatever he expects.” “You sound like a desperate villager with no options.” “You don’t sound like my daughter. You dragged me here to LIVE, not just exist.” Masha realises they’ve swapped roles—and promptly self-medicates with an XXL pizza. Mum comes home after midnight, lit up by happiness, and sidesteps Masha’s questions. “A thoroughly British beetle—definitely not a foreign invader,” she jokes, and heads for the shower. Dates, theatres, stand-up shows, jazz concerts, book clubs, and tea clubs follow. In six months, she signs up for cooking courses, earns certificates, and learns to make complex dishes. Masha tries not to freeload and applies to posh firms. No luck—big roles keep eluding her, friends only paid for her out of novelty, so she lands a job as a barista, then later, a night bartender. The city’s grind sets in, painting insomnia circles under her eyes. No love story emerges; drunken bar guests offer blurred romance, but nothing worthy of a fairy tale. Eventually, it’s all too much. “You were right, Mum—this was a mistake. I’m sorry I dragged you here. We need to go home,” declares Masha after a rough shift, stuffing her suitcase. “Going home? Why?” Mum asks, in the middle of packing. “Back where they spell our surname right, where we belong, where we’re registered at the proper clinic. You were always right.” “I’m settled here now and don’t want to leave,” Mum says, studying her daughter’s red eyes. “I don’t care—I want out. I hate this place: the Tube, the overpriced coffee, everyone in the bar is so pretentious. Let’s just go home. You’ve packed too, haven’t you?” “I’m moving in with Jeff,” Mum suddenly reveals. “You mean, MOVING IN with him?” “I reckon you’re set now—grown up, gorgeous, working, and living in London! Opportunity here flows faster than the Thames. Thank you for bringing me. If not for you, I’d still be pining in our backwater. Here, life truly sparkles! Thank you!” Tears fall, but Masha isn’t reassured. “Mum, how will I cope? Who’s going to look after me?” “Health insurance, a steady wage, the internet—plus, you’ll find your own beetle,” Mum quips back, echoing Masha’s words. “So you’re just abandoning me?” “I’m not. You promised—no tantrums.” “Yeah, yeah… Hand me the house keys.” “They’re in my bag. But just one thing—can you help Grandma? She’s moving down too. I’ve sorted it all with her. She’s landed a job at the local post office—after forty years, she could send a letter to the North Pole and it’d get there! Time she takes a chance before her ‘roots’ dry out.”

My Son Isn’t Ready to Be a Father… “Slut! Ungrateful Pig!” shrieked her mother at Natalie at the top of her lungs. Her daughter’s rounded belly only fueled her fury. “Get out and never come back! I never want to see you again!” Natalie’s mother truly threw her out, as she had many times before for smaller infractions. But this time, when Natalie “got herself in trouble,” her mother said she was never, ever welcome again unless she straightened herself out. Drenched in tears and carrying a small suitcase, Natalie hobbled to her beloved—her utterly flustered boyfriend. It turned out Nazar hadn’t even admitted to his parents that Natalie was pregnant by him. Nazar’s mother asked at once if “something could still be done,” but it was clearly too late—Natalie’s belly was unmistakable. In complete shock, terrified for her future, Natalie was ready for anything if only someone would help. A month ago, she had fought firmly against her mother’s suggestion; now, desperation and fear had set in. “My son isn’t ready to be a father,” Nazar’s mother declared resolutely. “He’s young—you’ll ruin his life. Of course, we’ll help as we can, but for now I’ve arranged for you to stay at a rehabilitation home for unwanted pregnant girls like you.” In the centre, Natalie finally found a small room, a breath of relief. No one pestered her, and she was prepared for birth emotionally and physically, with the help of a psychologist. When the key moment came and she held a tiny bundle in her arms—a baby girl—Natalie panicked. When she calmed down and really looked at the child, she marvelled at her small, mysterious daughter. With Christmas drawing near, Natalie was told to seek new lodgings—her place was needed for someone else. With month-old Eva in her arms, Natalie sat with no idea how they’d survive, where to find money or a place to sleep. Her own mother’s heart remained frozen, refusing to acknowledge her granddaughter; she wrote them both out of her life. “What a sad Christmas Eve, darling,” Natalie whispered to Eva. She had always loved the holiday, going carolling since childhood to earn a tidy sum. Eager to recapture that warmth, she thought, “Why not? My baby is quiet, I’ll bundle her up and go sing. If people don’t open their doors, so be it.” The next day, Natalie picked a quiet residential street for her carolling. At first, people eyed such an unusual caroller suspiciously, expecting male singers as tradition. Yet in some houses, warmed by her heartfelt singing and moved by the sight of her baby, they gifted her with money and treats, understanding that misfortune, not merriment, had brought her there. Going door to door was hard. “Just that last big house—maybe I’ll get a proper gift,” she thought, feeling hopeful as her pockets grew heavy with coins, enough to feel some relief. “May I sing you a carol?” she asked when the owner welcomed her inside. But the man’s behaviour unsettled her. He stared at Natalie’s face, then at her child, grew pale, and slumped shakily onto the sofa. “Nadine?” he said, voice trembling. “What? No, I’m Natalie… you must have mistaken me for someone else.” “Natalie? You look just like my wife… and the baby—she’s a girl?” “Yes.” “I had a daughter, too. But they’re gone… a car accident. Just the other night, I dreamed they came home… Then you appeared. Is such a thing possible?” “I… I don’t know what to say…” “Please, come in. Don’t be shy. Tell me your story.” At first, Natalie feared the stranger—his emotions so raw, his reactions so strange. Yet she had nowhere else to go. She stepped into the spacious sitting room, seeing on the wall a photo of his late wife—so like herself… Natalie found herself pouring out her story, every detail. At last, someone was listening, truly interested in her. The man sat in silence, soaking in every word, glancing now and then at baby Eva, sleeping soundly and smiling in her dreams—as if she already sensed she had found a home, soon to become her own…