My son became a henpecked husband. That woman controls everything, and I’m afraid to even say a word—such is the pain of a mother who no longer recognizes her own child.
The day Gary married, I barely knew his bride. They had met but a fortnight before, and truth be told, my first impression was uneasy. Gaudy makeup, a garish dress, plumped lips—none of it spoke of grace, only sloth. It spoke of one who takes but never gives.
Her parents I saw right outside the registry office. They spoke with false politeness, arrived in a flashy car, though I later learned it was rented—a cab wouldn’t do for their pride. My husband and I exchanged a glance; it was clear generosity wasn’t their manner. The wedding, mind you, we paid for. Every penny.
We’d moved to London a few months before Gary was born. He grew up tender-hearted, a gentle boy. He wrote poetry, took small things to heart. In the countryside, he might have toughened into a proper man—but city life left him soft. By twenty-six, he’d had but three sweethearts, and even those I learned of only through whispers on the phone. He was never one to share.
He carried on as young men do: came home tipsy now and then, reeking of cigarettes, though he swore off them later. After the wedding, they stayed with us. Our place had three rooms—my husband and I took the smallest, left the largest to the newlyweds. No matter, so long as they were happy. But peace never came. Endless rows—or rather, one shrill, petulant voice demanding all. Hers. Cynthia’s.
What her parents gave them, I’ve no idea. We handed them an envelope with a fair sum. Relatives, I later heard, gave money too. But gratitude? None came my way.
Cynthia hardly left the bedroom. Lived on takeaways. Worked as a nail technician and wouldn’t lift a finger at home. Housework? “Beneath her.” My son ate what he bought himself or our leftovers—silent, eyes downcast. Ashamed. This wasn’t love. It was servitude.
Then they moved out. Rented a flat near her salon. And there she was, the “generous soul,” sitting with us at last, sipping tea, eating cake. I nearly gasped—had she given up diets? As she climbed into the car, I caught disdain in her glance. Or did I imagine it? That feeling—like a knife between the ribs. It stayed.
Yesterday, I visited. Cynthia, of course, was at work. Gary met me—worn-out, listless. Offered tea, said he’d just come home, nothing to eat. Thank goodness I’d brought a bag full of food—at least the fridge was stocked now.
Turns out, he takes the bus to work now. The car stays with Cynthia—”she needs it for clients, how else would she manage?” The salon, mind you, is but four hundred yards away. But it’s too hard, too inconvenient for her. Him? Walks, rain or frost. Because that’s what suits her.
Then he let slip—he’s in debt. Several loans. One for a trip to Spain. Not for them both. For her. She was “exhausted,” so she flew off with a friend. I didn’t ask about this “friend.” I saw him flinch at such questions. Saw him suffer in silence.
I came home and wept. Told my husband everything. He just waved a hand—”I knew this would happen.” But I can’t dismiss it. I’m his mother. I didn’t raise my son to become another woman’s shadow.
Now I dare not speak plainly. Fear she’ll make another scene. Fear I’ll lose him for good. It aches. I feel helpless. Where did I go wrong? Why didn’t I teach him to stand firm? Why is my son so meek?
The worst of it? I can do nothing. Only watch as my boy fades—and wait. Wait for him to see he’s living her life, not his. If only it’s not too late.
