My son’s become a complete pushover. That woman runs the show now, and I’m afraid to even open my mouth—it’s a mother’s agony, no longer recognising her own child.
The day Jake 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 dress that left little to the imagination, and those overdone lips—it wasn’t elegance, it was laziness. Like she’d never lifted a finger and expected the world handed to her.
I met her parents right outside the registry office. They put on this painfully polite act, rolled up in a flashy car—turned out later it was rented, though. A cab wasn’t posh enough for them. My husband and I exchanged a glance. We knew then not to expect any generosity. And sure enough, we footed the entire wedding bill.
We’d moved to the city a few months before Jake was born. He grew up sensitive, a gentle boy. Wrote poetry, took things to heart. Maybe village life would’ve toughened him up, but the city made him soft. By twenty-six, he’d only had three girlfriends, and even then, I only caught whispers of them over the phone. He never opened up.
He acted like any lad—came home tipsy sometimes, reeked of fags, but then he seemed to quit. After the wedding, they moved in with us. We’ve got a three-bed, so my husband and I squeezed into the small room, gave them the big one. Didn’t mind—we just wanted peace. But peace vanished. Constant rows. Or rather, one voice—shrill, whining, demanding. That was her. Gemma.
No idea what her parents gave them. We handed over a fat envelope. Relatives chipped in too, I found out later. But gratitude? Not a word.
Gemma barely left their room. Lived on takeaway. Worked as a nail tech at a salon but wouldn’t lift a finger at home. Housework was “beneath her.” My son ate whatever he bought himself or scraped our leftovers—head down, silent. Ashamed. This wasn’t love. This was servitude.
Then they moved out. Rented a place near her salon. And suddenly, Miss High-and-Mighty deigned to sit with us for tea and cake. I was stunned—since when wasn’t she on a diet? When she got in the car, I caught that look. Contempt. Or maybe I imagined it. But that feeling—like a knife in the ribs. It stuck.
Yesterday, I visited. Gemma, of course, was “working.” Jake met me—exhausted, drained. Offered tea, mumbled there was no food. Thank God I’d brought bags of groceries. At least their fridge was full now.
Turns out he’s taking the bus to work. The car’s hers—”she needs it for clients, can’t possibly take the Tube.” The salon’s a five-minute walk. But it’s too hard for her. Too inconvenient. So he trudges through rain and cold. Because that’s what suits her.
Then he let slip—he’s got loans. Multiple. One’s for a trip to Spain. Not for them both. Just her. She was “stressed,” so she jetted off with a mate. Didn’t ask who this “mate” was. Saw him flinch at the question. Saw him silently crumbling.
I came home and wept. Told my husband everything. He just shrugged. “Knew this would happen.” But I can’t shrug it off. I’m his mother. Didn’t raise my boy to be some woman’s shadow.
Now I daren’t even speak my mind. Scared Gemma’ll kick off again. Scared I’ll lose him for good. Hurts like hell. Feel so powerless. Where did I go wrong? Why didn’t I teach him to stand his ground? Why’s my son whipped?
The worst part? I can’t fix it. Only watch as my boy fades away and wait. Wait for him to wake up and realise this isn’t his life. Pray it’s not too late.
