The Holey Socks of My Son
When my son Oliver and his fiancée Gemma came over for dinner, I laid out the best spread—roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, mashed potatoes, gravy, everything he loved. But the moment Oliver kicked off his shoes in the hallway, I nearly fainted. Both his socks were riddled with holes, his toes shamelessly poking through like prisoners escaping. I stood there, thunderstruck. Is this my son? The boy I raised, dressed, taught to take pride in his appearance? And where, pray tell, were Gemma’s eyes? This was beyond the pale. Even now, the image haunts me, and if I don’t vent, I’ll burst.
I, Margaret Whitmore, worked my fingers to the bone so Oliver never wanted for anything. Sewed his shirts, bought him the finest loafers even when money was tight. He grew up, became an engineer, married Gemma—a girl I thought was sweet and sensible. They have their flat, both work, everything seems fine on the surface. I don’t meddle, but I invite them for supper now and then—just to see them, to spoil them with home cooking. And then, this! Those socks weren’t just worn; they were a cry for help, a sign something’s gone awry in their home.
It started when they walked in. I was bustling about, setting plates, warming the roast. Oliver slipped off his brogues, and I caught a glimpse of his feet. At first, I thought my eyes deceived me—my Oliver, always so neat, wouldn’t wear rags. But no—those socks looked like they’d survived the Blitz, holes on both sides, heels worn thin, toes sticking out like they were waving at me. I froze, even dropped my spoon. Gemma noticed my stare and giggled. “Oh, Margaret, that’s on him—I’ve told him a hundred times to buy new ones.” *Him*? And what, darling, have *you* been doing?
All through dinner, I couldn’t focus. I watched Oliver tucking into his roast, baffled—how had it come to this? I didn’t raise him to dress like a tramp. Gemma prattled on about her job as if nothing were amiss. Finally, I snapped. “Oliver, love, what’s with the socks? It’s shameful!” He shrugged, embarrassed. “Mum, relax, they’re just old—I forgot to toss them.” *Forgot*? Gemma chirped, “Margaret, he picks his own clothes. I don’t police his wardrobe.” You don’t? Then who *does* look after your husband, if not you?
I bit my tongue, but inside, I was seething. After supper, while Gemma lounged in the parlour, I whispered to Oliver, “Son, are you strapped for cash? Or is no one doing the washing?” He waved me off. “Mum, drop it. It’s fine. I just didn’t notice.” *Didn’t notice*? Those holes could be seen from the International Space Station! I wanted to confront Gemma but feared she’d brush it off. Instead, I rummaged through my drawers, found the socks I’d bought Oliver for Christmas, and shoved them at him. “Take these. Put them on. It’s painful to look at you.” He smiled, thanked me, but I could tell—he didn’t care.
I sent them home but lay awake all night. How could this be? Gemma works, yes, she’s tired—but is that an excuse? At her age, I worked, kept house, tended my husband *and* child. Can’t she chuck a few socks in the wash? Or buy new ones? They’re ten for a fiver at Marks & Spencer! Or is it *fashionable* now to dress like a scarecrow? Gemma’s always pristine—manicured, in crisp blouses—while my son’s socks are disintegrating. It’s not just socks. It’s a *symbol*. Proof she doesn’t give a fig about him.
The next day, I rang my friend Beatrice to vent. She listened, then sighed. “Peggy, it’s not your place. They’re grown—they’ll sort it.” *Grown*? Then who *does* sort it when Oliver’s dressed like a vagabond? Bea added, “Maybe Gemma doesn’t see it as her job. Women are different now.” *Different*? Fine, let her have her career—but basic care for her husband? Is that *obsolete*? I don’t expect her to bake pies daily, but can’t she darn a sock?
I decided to talk to Gemma. Invited her for tea—without Oliver. Said, “Gemma, forgive me, but how can you let Oliver wear such socks? He’s your husband.” She blinked. “Margaret, he’s an adult. He chooses his clothes. I’ve told him to buy new ones.” *Adult*? And you don’t *see* him in tatters? I hinted a wife should mind these things, but she just smiled. “We’re equals. I don’t control his wardrobe.” *Equals*? So one’s in rags, the other in Jimmy Choos?
Now I’m at a loss. Part of me wants to buy Oliver a crate of socks and wash them myself—spare him the disgrace. But another part knows—it’s not my place. They must sort it. I offered Oliver money. “Son, if you’re skint, just say.” He laughed. “Mum, it’s fine. They’re just old—I’ll bin them.” *Bin them*? Why not *now*? I don’t know how to get through to Gemma. Maybe she truly thinks it’s not her concern. But it *hurts*, seeing my son like this. Did I fail? Did I not teach him to care for himself?
For now, I hold my tongue. Invite them for dinners, slip Oliver fresh socks, but inside, I’m boiling. Those holes aren’t just in fabric—they’re in *something else*. And I don’t know how to mend it without tearing us apart. But one thing’s certain—my son deserves better than walking around with his toes out. And Gemma ought to learn what it means to be a wife. Or is *that* my job too?
