My Son’s Threadbare Socks
When my son William and his wife Charlotte came over for dinner, I’d laid out a proper feast—roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, mashed potatoes, and all his favourites. But the moment William took off his shoes in the hallway, I nearly fainted. Both his socks were full of holes, his toes poking through like they were waving at me! I stood there, gobsmacked. Is this really my boy, the one I raised to be presentable, walking around like some ragamuffin? And where, might I ask, was Charlotte’s common sense? It’s beyond the pale! I still can’t get the sight out of my mind, and if I don’t get it off my chest, I’ll burst.
I’m Margaret, and I’ve spent my life making sure William wanted for nothing. Sewed his school shirts, bought him the best shoes even when money was tight. He grew up, became an engineer, married Charlotte—a girl I thought was sweet and sensible. They’ve got their own flat, both work decent jobs—on paper, everything’s fine. I don’t meddle, but I invite them round for dinner now and then, just to see them and spoil them with a home-cooked meal. And then this! His socks looked like they’d survived a nuclear blast—holes at the sides, worn-through heels, toes dangling out like they were desperate for fresh air. I froze mid-step and dropped a spoon. Charlotte caught me staring and giggled, “Oh, Margaret, it’s his own fault. I’ve told him a hundred times to buy new ones.” His fault? And where exactly were you, love?
I barely touched my food, too busy stealing glances at William happily tucking into his roast. How had it come to this? I didn’t raise him to look like a tramp. Meanwhile, Charlotte nattered on about her job like it was just another Tuesday. Finally, I snapped, “William, sweetheart, what on earth happened to your socks? It’s embarrassing!” He shrugged, cheeks flushing. “Mum, relax, they’re just old. Haven’t got round to binning them.” Haven’t got round to it? Charlotte chimed in, “Margaret, he picks his own clothes. I’m not his keeper.” Not his keeper? Then who is, if not his wife?
I bit my tongue, but inside, I was seething. After dinner, when Charlotte wandered off to the lounge, I hissed at William, “Son, are you strapped for cash? Or is no one doing the laundry?” He waved me off. “Mum, don’t start. It’s fine. Just slipped my mind.” Slipped his mind? Those holes were big enough to see from space! I wanted to read Charlotte the riot act, but she’d just laugh it off. Instead, I dug out a pair of new socks I’d bought for his birthday last year and shoved them at him. “Put these on. It’s painful to look at you.” He thanked me, but I could tell he didn’t care.
I sent them home but barely slept a wink. How could this happen? Charlotte works, fine, she’s tired—but is that an excuse? In my day, we juggled jobs, homes, husbands, and kids without letting anyone look like a scarecrow. Can’t she toss a few socks in the wash or nip to Primark? Or is shabbiness fashionable now? Charlotte always looks polished, nails done, while my son’s socks are falling apart. And it’s not just socks—it’s a sign. A sign she doesn’t give a toss about him.
The next day, I rang my friend Patricia to vent. She listened, then said, “Maggie, leave it. They’re grown. They’ll sort it.” Grown? Then who’ll sort it if William’s walking around like a beggar? Pat added, “Maybe Charlotte doesn’t see it as her job. Women are different now.” Different? I’ve no issue with her career, but basic care for her husband—has that gone out of style too? I don’t expect her to slave over a stove, but is mending socks really too much?
I decided to talk to Charlotte. Invited her for tea, just us. I said, “Charlotte, love, I don’t mean to stick my nose in, but how can you let William wander about like that? He’s your husband.” She blinked. “Margaret, he’s a grown man. He chooses what he wears. I’ve told him loads of times to buy new ones.” A grown man? And you don’t notice he’s dressed like a hobo? I hinted a wife ought to manage these things, but she just smiled. “We’re equals. I don’t police his wardrobe.” Equals? So one’s in rags, the other in fresh heels?
Now I’m torn. Part of me wants to buy William a year’s supply of socks and do his laundry myself. The other knows it’s not my place. They need to sort it. I offered, “Son, if money’s tight, just say.” He laughed. “Mum, stop fussing. They’re just old. I’ll chuck ’em.” Chuck them? Why not now? I don’t know how to get through to Charlotte. Maybe she genuinely thinks it’s not her problem. But it breaks my heart to see my son like this. Feels like I failed somewhere, didn’t teach him better.
For now, I’m trying to stay out of it. I invite them over, slip William new socks when I can, but it gnaws at me. Those socks aren’t just threadbare—they’re a symptom. Something’s off in their marriage, and I’ve no idea how to fix it without making things worse. But one thing’s certain: my boy deserves better than walking around with his toes on display. And Charlotte might want to rethink what being a wife means. Or is that my job too, now?
