My son has gastritis, and his wife feeds him fast food. I can’t bear to watch…
My name is Margaret Whitmore. My son, James, recently turned twenty-seven. Six months ago, he married a girl named Eleanor. She’s clever, pretty, well-mannered—finishing her medical degree to become a doctor. On paper, everything should be perfect, but I can’t shake this unease in my chest. Because I see it—she isn’t caring for my son the way she should.
James has suffered from chronic gastritis since childhood. It’s hereditary, from his father. This isn’t just some “upset tummy,” like people dismiss it nowadays. It’s a condition that, when it flares, turns his life into hell. Spring and autumn are the worst—heartburn, pain, nausea, sleepless nights. I know what he endures because I nursed him through it for years. When he lived with me, I kept him on a strict regimen: steamed vegetables, no fried food, no takeaways, meals at exact times, gentle porridges, boiled chicken, broth, jelly. I didn’t just feed him—I protected him.
Before the wedding, I warned Eleanor:
“James has a delicate stomach. Be careful, especially in the change of seasons. Please, feed him properly.”
She smiled and promised it was under control. I believed her.
Then, a month later, I visited them—and froze. The kitchen was a mess: dirty plates, a fridge with nothing but ketchup, beer, and a stale loaf. The bin overflowed with pizza boxes and takeaway wrappers. The stove? Untouched.
“Where’s James?” I asked.
“At work. He’ll be back soon,” Eleanor answered, unbothered.
“Did he eat today?”
“Oh, I think he grabbed something… this morning.”
My blood ran cold. I knew where this would lead. And I was right. Three months later—hospital. Acute flare-up. IV drips, strict diet, pain. I stayed by his side nearly the entire time. Eleanor? An hour here, two there, always rushing off to “study for exams.” It terrified me.
After he was discharged, I brought them a chicken—proper, fresh, from the butcher. Begged her to make a light soup. She nodded. A week passed. I checked the freezer—there it sat, untouched, still frozen. Not even defrosted. Forget soup.
I offered help.
“Eleanor, let me cook. I know you’re busy with exams—”
“No need!” she cut in. “I’ve got it.”
But she hasn’t. And it kills me to watch my son, the boy I guarded for decades, slip back into the grip of this illness. And he says nothing. Won’t upset his wife. Won’t start a row. But he’s losing weight, snapping over nothing, lying awake at night.
And I can’t stay silent. Can’t watch as his health crumbles. I don’t want a feud with Eleanor. Don’t want to wreck their marriage. But I won’t stand by while he gets worse by the day.
I’m tempted to speak to her mother. Maybe she can make her understand. Maybe she’ll find the words to explain that a husband needs care in action, not just words. That being a wife isn’t just sharing a bed and a kitchen—it’s holding him up, healing him, saving him when he’s broken. And if you’re training to be a doctor? Then God help you, you should know better.
I’m not her enemy. I’m just his mother. I want my son well. And if that means stepping in, I will. I’ll cook every meal myself if I have to. But I won’t watch him turn pale and waste away. Won’t stay quiet while neglect picks him apart. Because I love my son. And I’ll fight for him—even if the world calls me wrong.
