My name is Eleanor Whitmore. My son, Daniel, recently turned 27. Six months ago, he married a girl named Charlotte. She’s clever, pretty, well-mannered. She’s about to finish her sixth year at medical school—soon to be a doctor. On paper, everything should be fine, but I can’t shake this unease in my chest. Because I see it—she isn’t looking after my son the way she should.
Daniel has suffered from chronic gastritis since childhood. It runs in the family, from his father’s side. This isn’t some minor “food ache” like people dismiss these days. It’s a disease that, when it flares up, turns life into a nightmare. Spring and autumn are the worst for him—heartburn, sharp pains, sickness, sleepless nights. I know what he goes through because I nursed him through it for years. When he lived with me, I kept him on a strict routine: bland meals, no fried foods, no takeaways, eating by the clock, soft porridges, boiled chicken, soups, custards. I didn’t just feed him—I protected him.
Before the wedding, I warned Charlotte:
“Daniel has a weak stomach. Be careful, especially between seasons. Please, feed him properly.”
She smiled and promised she’d keep it under control. I believed her.
But a month later, I visited them and froze. The kitchen was a mess—dirty plates piled up, the fridge stocked with nothing but ketchup, lager, and a stale loaf of bread. The bin overflowed with pizza boxes and fast-food wrappers. The hob was spotless—untouched. I asked:
“Where’s Daniel?”
“At work, he’ll be back soon,” Charlotte answered casually.
“Has he eaten today?”
“Might’ve had something… this morning.”
My blood ran cold. I knew where this would lead. And I was right. Three months later—hospital. A severe flare-up. Drips, strict diet, agony. I stayed by his bedside nearly the whole time. Charlotte? An hour here, two there, always rushing off to “study for exams.” It terrified me.
After he was discharged, I brought them a proper rabbit—good quality, bought at the butcher’s. I asked her to make a light broth. She nodded. Over a week passed. I checked the freezer—the rabbit lay exactly where she’d left it, untouched. Still frozen. Never mind the soup.
I offered to help:
“Charlotte, let me cook. I know you’re busy with exams—”
“No need!” she cut in. “I’ve got it.”
But she hasn’t got it. And it kills me to watch my son—the one I guarded for years—slipping back into that place where the illness takes over. He says nothing. Doesn’t want to upset his wife. Doesn’t want a row. But he’s losing weight, snapping at nothing, sleepless again.
And I can’t stay silent. I won’t stand by and watch his health unravel. I don’t want a fight with Charlotte. I don’t want to wreck their marriage. But I refuse to watch him get worse by the day.
I’m seriously considering speaking to her mother. Maybe she can get through to her. Maybe she can make Charlotte understand—love isn’t just words. It’s action. Being a wife isn’t just sharing a bed and a house. It’s standing by him, healing him, saving him when he’s in pain. And if you’re training to be a doctor—bloody well act like one.
I’m not her enemy. I’m his mother. I want my son well. And if I have to step in—I will. Cook for him myself, deliver meals daily, whatever it takes. But I won’t watch him fade, weaken, suffer. I won’t stay quiet while negligence ruins him. Because I love my son. And I’ll fight for him—even if the world calls me wrong.
