I dont know what to do. My son Michael always, absolutely always defends his wife, even when shes in the wrong.
Its hopeless for me, I say, my voice shaking. Michael will always step in for Poppy, no matter what I say. He waves his hand and tells me, Dad, dont worry, shell sort it out. Shes not foolish. He always finds an excuse for her, even when its clear shes made a mistake.
Poppy is only twentyeight. She and Michael are raising their eighteenmonthold son Paul in a modest flat they bought on a mortgage in Manchester. Poppy is on maternity leave; Michael is the sole earner. They live within their means careful, with no extravagance but also no deprivation.
The problem is that I simply cant stomach Poppy. The first time Michael brought her home, I was stunned. Long fake nails, a tattoo on her neck, a short skirt, skyhigh heels that looked like they belonged on a runway, and heavily madeup lips. I thought he was joking. How could my son seriously date someone so… frivolous?
A month later they were married. Even at the wedding Poppy stood out leather skirt, glittery top, makeup like a stage performer. Michael was over the moon, and I decided to keep my mouth shut and just watch.
At first I barely spoke to my daughterinlaw, phoning Michael a couple of times a month just to ask how things were. Everything changed about a year and a half ago when Paul was born.
I turned up on the second day after they were discharged, I recall. Poppy had a fresh manicure. I said, Poppy, are you out of your mind? Thats dangerous for a baby! She replied, Everythings under control, Ill manage. When I went to Michael, he said, Dad, stay out of it. Its none of your business. And thats been the pattern ever since I say something, and I hear, Dont interfere.
I tried to educate my daughterinlaw with advice, comments, reproaches. All I got back was indifference. Poppy doesnt bother to justify herself.
Whenever I visit, the flat is a mess. I tell her, Poppy, make a soup for the boy. He works. She says, Michael never eats soup. How can that be? He ate it before! Shes just lazy. If she cooked properly, hed have both soup and borscht.
I attempted to speak with Michael, but he always took his wifes side. Dad, stop nitpicking. Everythings fine. Poppys a good mother.
Good? I snapped. She never puts the phone down! I havent seen her without a gadget. Shes scrolling through Instagram even when the child is right there.
The final straw came on a playground. I knocked, got no answer, assumed they were out. I walked onto the small park by the block and saw Paul digging in the sand while Poppy sat on a bench, eyes glued to her phone. I moved closer and saw Michael standing by the fence. Suddenly the boy ran to me, grinned, called out, Granddad! Poppy barely turned. He darted onto the road! There are hardly any cars, but you never know.
Thank goodness, she whispered, trembling, there werent any cars. I grabbed the toddler and ran toward her, but she sat there, dazed. I said, If you dont put that phone away right now, Ill smash it on the pavement! Are you a mother or what?
Poppy leapt up, snatched Paul, and fled. The child started crying, reaching for me, but she slammed the door shut and never opened it again.
I called Michael and told him everything. He said, Dad, youve gone too far. Calm down. Poppy can handle it. How could he say that when I saw it all with my own eyes? He didnt believe me. Now neither of them answers my calls or opens the door. Its been a month. I have no idea what shes been feeding him, but I just want my grandson to be safe.
I keep wondering: maybe Michaels right? Maybe I should have kept quiet? I cant stay silent when a childs welfare is at stake. Im a mother, a grandmother.
Now Im just a lonely man with a dead phone, and the son I raised has taken his wifes side always.
