My son has become completely under the thumb. That 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 Harry got married, I barely knew his bride-to-be. They’d only met two weeks before, and if I’m honest, my first impression was unsettling. Tacky makeup, a revealing dress, inflated lips—it all spoke not of femininity but of laziness. A refusal to work. A habit of taking rather than giving.
I met her parents right outside the registry office. They spoke with forced politeness, arriving in an expensive car, though I later found out it was rented—an ordinary taxi apparently wasn’t grand enough. My husband and I exchanged a glance. It was clear we shouldn’t expect much generosity. We paid for the wedding, by the way. Every penny.
We’d moved to the city a few months before Harry was born. He grew up sensitive, a gentle boy. He wrote poetry, got upset over little things. Maybe out in the countryside he’d have toughened into a proper man—but city life left him fragile. By twenty-six, he’d only had three girlfriends, and even then, I only found out from overheard phone calls. He was never open.
He acted like most lads—came home tipsy sometimes, reeking of fags, though he gave that up eventually. After the wedding, they stayed with us. We’ve got a three-bed, so my husband and I took the small room, leaving the big one to them. I didn’t mind—so long as they were happy. But happiness was in short supply. Constant rows. Though, truth be told, it was one voice—shrill, whining, demanding. Hers. Gemma.
What her parents gave them, I’ve no idea. We handed over an envelope with a decent sum. Relatives chipped in with money too, but gratitude never came my way.
Gemma barely left the bedroom. Lived on takeaways. Worked as a nail technician, yet couldn’t lift a finger at home. Housework was beneath her. My son ate whatever he bought himself or finished our leftovers—silent, eyes down. He was ashamed. This wasn’t love, it was servitude.
Then they moved out. Rented a place near her salon. And for the first time in months, the ‘generous soul’ sat with us for tea and cake. I was stunned—had she given up her fad diets? When she got into the car, I caught something like contempt in her look. Or maybe I imagined it. But that feeling stuck—like a knife between the ribs.
Yesterday, I visited them. Gemma, of course, was at work. Harry met me. Exhausted, limp. Offered tea, muttering he’d just got back from work, nothing in the fridge. Good job I’d brought a shopping bag—at least now they’d have food.
Turns out, he takes the bus to work now. The car stays with Gemma—”she needs it for clients, how’s she meant to get around on public transport?” The salon’s four hundred yards away. But it’s hard for her, inconvenient. So he walks. In rain, in freezing weather. Because that’s easier for her.
Then he let slip—he’s got loans. A few. One for a trip to Egypt. Not for them both. For her. She was ‘stressed’ and flew off with a mate. I didn’t ask who this ‘mate’ was. I saw him flinch at the question. Saw him suffer in silence.
I went home and cried. Told my husband everything. He just waved it off: “I knew this would happen from the start.” But I care. I’m his mother. I didn’t raise my son 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 of losing him entirely. It hurts. I feel helpless. Where did I go wrong? Why didn’t I teach him to stand his ground? Why is my son whipped?
The worst part? I can’t change a thing. Just watch as my boy vanishes into her shadow and wait. Wait for him to realise he’s not living his own life. I just hope it’s not too late.
