**My Son’s Holey Socks**
When my son Oliver and his wife Emily came over for dinner, I set the table as if it were a special occasion—roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, mashed potatoes, and all his favourites. But the moment Oliver took off his shoes in the hallway, I nearly fainted. Both his socks were riddled with holes, his toes shamelessly poking through! I froze, as if struck by lightning. How could my son, the boy I raised to be presentable, wear such rags? And where, might I ask, were Emily’s eyes? Honestly, this was beyond the pale. I still can’t shake the image, and I need to get this off my chest before I explode.
I, Margaret Whitmore, have spent my life ensuring Oliver wanted for nothing. I stitched his school shirts, bought him the finest shoes, even when I had to pinch pennies. He grew up, became an engineer, married Emily—a girl who once struck me as sweet and capable. They have their own flat, steady jobs, seemingly everything in order. I don’t interfere, but I invite them for dinner 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, proof something was amiss in their home.
It all started when they arrived. I was bustling about, arranging plates, keeping the roast warm. Oliver kicked off his loafers, and I caught a glimpse of his feet. At first, I thought I was seeing things—my son, always so tidy, wouldn’t wear such tatters. But no, those socks looked like they’d survived a bombing—gaping holes at the sides, frayed heels, toes peeking out as if begging for escape. My spoon clattered onto the table. Emily, noticing my stare, giggled. “Oh, Margaret, he does this—I’ve told him a hundred times to buy new ones.” *He* does this? And what exactly is *your* role, dear?
I couldn’t focus through dinner. Watching Oliver tuck into his roast, all I could think was: how did it come to this? I didn’t raise him to look like a vagrant. Emily prattled about her job as if nothing were wrong. Finally, I snapped. “Oliver, love, what on earth happened to your socks? It’s embarrassing!” He shrugged, sheepish. “Mum, relax—they’re just old. Didn’t get round to tossing them.” Didn’t get round to it? Emily added, “Margaret, *he* picks his clothes. I don’t police his wardrobe.” You don’t? Then who *does* look after a husband, if not his wife?
I bit my tongue, but inside, I was seething. Later, while Emily was in the parlour, I whispered to Oliver, “Son, are you in some sort of trouble? Can’t afford socks? Or is laundry too much?” He brushed me off. “Mum, drop it. It’s fine. Just didn’t notice.” Didn’t notice? Those holes were visible from space! I wanted to confront Emily, but feared she’d just laugh it off. Instead, I dug out a pair of fresh socks—bought for his birthday—and thrust them at him. “Take these. Can’t bear to look at those.” He thanked me, but his smile was indifferent.
I sent them home, but couldn’t sleep. All night, my mind raced. How could Emily work, earn, yet let this slide? At her age, I balanced a job, a household, a husband, *and* a child. Couldn’t she toss a few socks in the wash? Or buy new ones? They’re hardly dear! Was this some new fashion—looking like a beggar? Emily always turned up pristine, manicured, while my son dressed like a tramp. Those socks weren’t just cloth—they were a *sign*. Proof she didn’t care.
The next day, I rang my friend Dorothy to vent. She sighed. “Maggie, it’s not your place. They’re grown; they’ll sort it.” Grown? Then who *does* sort it if Oliver’s walking around in scraps? Dorothy added, “Maybe Emily doesn’t see it as her duty. Women today are different.” Different? Fine, let her climb the career ladder, but basic care for her husband—was *that* obsolete too? I’m not asking for daily roast dinners, but mending a sock takes minutes!
I decided to speak to Emily. Invited her for tea, just us. “Emily, forgive me, but how can you let Oliver wear such things? He’s *your* husband.” She blinked. “Margaret, he’s an adult. He chooses his clothes. I’ve told him to buy new ones.” *Adult*? So you just ignore the holes? I hinted that a wife ought to manage these things. She just smiled. “We believe in equality. I don’t control his wardrobe.” Equality? One in rags, the other in pristine heels?
Now, I’m torn. Part of me wants to buy Oliver a dozen pairs and wash them myself—spare him the shame. But another part knows: this isn’t my battle. They must figure it out. I offered, “Oliver, if money’s tight, I can help.” He laughed. “Mum, it’s *just socks*. I’ll bin them.” Bin them? Why not *now*? How do I make Emily see? Maybe she truly believes it’s not her concern. But watching my son like this—it stings. Feels like *I* failed, never taught him self-respect.
For now, I’m forcing myself to step back. I’ll keep inviting them, slipping Oliver new socks, but inside, I’m simmering. Those holes aren’t just in fabric—they’re in their marriage. And I’ve no idea how to fix it without driving a wedge between us. But one thing’s certain: my son deserves better than walking around with his toes out. And Emily ought to remember what being a wife means. Or must I teach her *that* too?
