My son has gastritis, and his wife keeps feeding him fast food. I just can’t sit back and watch this…
My name is Margaret Williams. My son, James, just turned 27. Six months ago, he married a lovely girl named Emily. She’s smart, kind, well-mannered—studying medicine, in fact, in her final year. On paper, everything’s perfect. But my heart won’t rest because I can see she’s not looking after him the way she should.
James has struggled with chronic gastritis since he was little—inherited from his dad’s side. It’s not just some passing stomachache, like people these days think. When it flares up, it can turn his life into hell. Spring and autumn are the worst—acid reflux, vomiting, sleepless nights. I know exactly what it’s like because I nursed him through it for years. When he lived with me, I made sure he ate right—plain food, no fried stuff, no takeaways, meals on time. Oatmeal, boiled chicken, soups, jelly. I wasn’t just feeding him—I was protecting him.
Before the wedding, I warned Emily: “James has a sensitive stomach. You’ve got to be careful, especially when the seasons change. Just keep his meals light.” She smiled and promised she would. I believed her.
But a month later, I popped round and nearly had a heart attack. The kitchen was a mess—dirty plates, a fridge with nothing but ketchup, beer, and stale bread. The bin was stuffed with pizza boxes and takeaway chicken wings. And the stove? Spotless. I asked, “Where’s James?”
“Oh, at work, he’ll be back soon,” Emily said, like it was nothing.
“Did he even eat today?”
“I think he had… something this morning?”
My blood ran cold. I knew how this would end. And I was right. Three months later—hospital. Severe flare-up. IV drips, strict diet, agony. I sat by his bed the whole time. Emily? She’d show up for an hour, maybe two, then rush off to “study for exams.” It terrified me.
After he got out, I bought them a proper free-range chicken from the butcher’s—asked her to make a light broth. She nodded. A week later, I checked the freezer—that chicken was still there, untouched, not even thawed. Forget about soup.
I offered to help: “Emily, let me cook. I know you’re swamped with uni.”
“No, I’ve got it!” she snapped.
But she hasn’t got it. And it kills me to watch my son—the one I spent years protecting—slip back into that place where the illness takes over. He won’t say a word, though—doesn’t want to upset her, start a row. But he’s losing weight, snapping at everyone, barely sleeping.
I can’t stay quiet. I won’t just stand by while his health crumbles. I don’t want to fight with Emily. I don’t want to wreck their marriage. But I refuse to watch him get worse every single day.
I’m seriously thinking of talking to her mum. Maybe she can get through to her. Maybe she can explain that being a wife isn’t just about sharing a bed and a house—it’s about stepping up when your husband’s in pain. And if you’re training to be a doctor? Even more reason.
I’m not the villain here. I’m just his mum. And if I have to step in—cook his meals myself, drop off food every day—I will. I won’t let him fade away again. I won’t stay silent while neglect eats him alive. Because I love my son. And I’ll fight for him, even if someone thinks that’s wrong.
