My son has become completely under her thumb. This woman controls everything, and I’m afraid to even say a word—the pain of a mother who no longer recognises her own child.
The day Jamie married, I barely knew his bride-to-be. They’d only met two weeks before, and honestly, my first impression was unsettling. Tacky makeup, a revealing dress, plumped-up lips—it all screamed laziness, not femininity. Like she was used to taking, not giving.
I met her parents right outside the registry office. They spoke with forced politeness, arrived in a posh car, but I later found out it was rented—a taxi wasn’t flashy enough for them. My husband and I exchanged a glance. It was clear we shouldn’t expect generosity. We paid for the entire wedding, by the way.
We moved to the city a few months before Jamie was born. He grew up sensitive, gentle—a boy who wrote poetry and got upset over little things. Maybe village life would’ve toughened him up, but the city made him fragile. By twenty-six, he’d only had three girlfriends, and even those I only caught wind of from hushed phone calls. He was never open with me.
He acted like any lad—sometimes came home tipsy, smelling of cigarettes, though he quit later. After the wedding, they stayed with us. We have a three-bed house, so my husband and I moved into the small room and gave them the big one. We didn’t mind—we just wanted peace. But peace never came. Only arguments. Or rather, one voice—shrill, demanding, entitled. Hers. Emily.
What her parents gave them, I’ve no idea. We handed them an envelope with a good bit of cash. Later, I found out relatives had given money too. But gratitude? None.
Emily barely left her room. Ate nothing but takeaways. Worked as a nail technician at a salon and lifted a finger at home—never. Housework was “beneath her.” My son ate whatever he bought or finished our leftovers—silent, eyes down. He was ashamed. This wasn’t love. It was servitude.
Then they moved out. Rented a flat near her salon. And there she was—”generous soul”—sitting with us for tea and cake for the first time in months. I was shocked. Not on a diet anymore? When she got into the car, I caught the look in her eye—disdain. Or maybe I imagined it. But that feeling? Like a knife between the ribs. It stayed.
Yesterday, I visited them. Emily, of course, was at work. Jamie answered the door—exhausted, drained. Offered tea, saying he’d just got back from work and there was no food. Good thing I’d brought a full bag of groceries. At least now the fridge isn’t empty.
Turns out he takes the bus to work now. The car stays with Emily—”she needs it for clients, she can’t possibly take public transport.” The salon’s 400 metres away. But it’s too hard, too inconvenient for her. So he walks—rain or freezing cold—because that’s what suits her.
Then he let it slip—he’s got loans. A few. One for a trip to Spain. Not for them both. Just her. She was “exhausted,” so she flew off with a friend. I didn’t ask who this “friend” was. I saw him flinch at the question. Saw him suffer in silence.
I got home and broke down. Told my husband everything. He just waved a hand. “Knew this would happen.” But I care. I’m his mother. I didn’t raise my son for this—to become some woman’s shadow.
Now I don’t dare say a thing. He’s afraid she’ll kick off again. I’m afraid I’ll lose him completely. It hurts. I feel helpless. Where did I go wrong? Why didn’t I teach him to stand his ground? Why is my son a doormat?
The worst part? I can’t change it. I can only watch as my boy fades into the background and wait—wait for him to realise this isn’t his life. I just hope it’s not too late.
