My son has gastritis, but his wife keeps feeding him fast food. I can’t just stand by and watch…
My name is Margaret Davies. My son, Oliver, recently turned 27. Six months ago, he married a girl named Emily. She’s intelligent, lovely, and well-mannered. She’s finishing her sixth year at medical school and will soon be a doctor. On the surface, everything should be fine, but I can’t shake this unease in my heart. I see it—she isn’t looking after my son the way she should.
Oliver has suffered from chronic gastritis since childhood—inherited from his father. It’s not just some passing stomach trouble, as people often assume. It’s a condition that, when flaring up, can make life unbearable. Spring and autumn are particularly hard on him: heartburn, pain, nausea, sleepless nights. I know what he goes through because I’ve cared for him for years. When he lived with me, I kept a strict routine—balanced meals, nothing fried, no junk food, eating at set times, soft porridge, boiled meat, soups, jelly. I didn’t just feed him; I protected him.
Before the wedding, I warned Emily:
“Oliver has a sensitive stomach. You have to be careful, especially during seasonal changes. Please make sure he eats right.”
She smiled and promised it would all be under control. I believed her.
But a month later, I visited them and was stunned. Dirty plates in the sink, the fridge holding nothing but ketchup, beer, and a stale loaf of bread. The bin was full of takeaway pizza boxes and fried chicken containers—no proper meal in sight. I asked:
“Where’s Oliver?”
“At work, he’ll be back soon,” Emily answered casually.
“Did he at least eat today?”
“He had something… this morning…”
My blood ran cold. I knew how this would end. And I was right. Three months later—hospital. An acute attack. IV drips, strict diet, pain. I stayed by his side the whole time, while Emily only dropped in briefly, always saying she had “study deadlines.” It terrified me.
After he was discharged, I bought them a fresh rabbit from the butcher—proper, good quality. I asked her to make a light soup with it. She nodded. A week later, I checked the freezer—the rabbit was still there, untouched, not even thawed. Let alone turned into soup.
I offered to help:
“Emily, let me cook. I know you’re busy with exams—”
“No need!” she cut in. “I can manage.”
But she isn’t managing. It hurts to watch my son, whom I guarded for so long, slipping back into illness. He stays quiet—doesn’t want to upset his wife, doesn’t want conflict. But he’s losing weight, irritable, sleepless again.
I won’t stay silent. I can’t watch his health crumble. I don’t want to fight with Emily. I don’t want to ruin their marriage. But I won’t stand by while my son weakens by the day.
I’ve considered speaking to her mother. Maybe she can get through to her. Maybe she can explain that being a wife means more than sharing a bed and a kitchen. It means supporting, tending, saving someone when they’re unwell. Especially if you’re training to be a doctor.
I’m not the villain. I’m just a mother. I want my son to be healthy. And if I must step in, I will—cook for him myself, deliver meals daily. I won’t watch him fade in silence while neglect chips away at him. I’ll fight for him, even if others think it wrong. Love doesn’t stand aside. Not ever.
