**The Hole-y Socks of My Son**
When my son Oliver and his wife Emily came round for dinner, I’d laid out a proper feast—roast beef with all the trimmings, mash, Yorkshire puddings, the works. But the moment Oliver kicked off his shoes in the hallway, I nearly fainted. There they were—his socks, riddled with holes, toes poking through like cheeky little escape artists! I stood frozen, as if struck by lightning. Is this the same boy I raised to be presentable? And where, pray tell, are Emily’s eyes? This is beyond the pale. I’m still reeling, and if I don’t vent, I might explode.
I, Margaret Whitmore, worked my fingers to the bone to make sure Oliver wanted for nothing. Sewed his school uniforms, squeezed pennies to buy him decent shoes. He grew up, became an engineer, married Emily—a lovely girl, or so I thought. They’ve got their own flat, steady jobs; by all accounts, they’re doing fine. I don’t interfere, but I do invite them for dinner now and then—just to fuss over them a bit. And then *this*! Those socks weren’t just worn; they were a cry for help, a neon sign that something’s amiss in their household.
It all started when they walked in. I was bustling about, dishing up plates, warming the gravy. Oliver slipped off his loafers, and I caught a glimpse of his feet. At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks—surely my tidy son wouldn’t parade about in rags? But no, these socks looked like they’d survived the Blitz—holes on both sides, heels threadbare, toes waving hello. I gaped, even dropped a serving spoon. Emily, spotting my horror, giggled. “Oh, Margaret, he does this to himself—I’ve told him a hundred times to buy new ones!” *Himself*? And what exactly are *you* doing, dear?
Over dinner, I couldn’t focus. Oliver happily tucked into his roast while I seethed. Is this what I raised? A man dressed like a tramp? Meanwhile, Emily chattered about her job as if nothing were wrong. Finally, I snapped. “Oliver, love, what *is* this sock situation? It’s embarrassing!” He shrugged. “Mum, relax, they’re just old—forgot to bin them.” *Forgot*? Emily chimed in: “Margaret, I can’t police his wardrobe!” Can’t *police* it? Since when is ensuring your husband isn’t dressed like a hobo ‘policing’?
I bit my tongue till pudding. Once Emily wandered off, I hissed at Oliver: “Son, are you skint? Is the washing machine broken?” He rolled his eyes. “Mum, drop it. Just didn’t notice.” *Didn’t notice*? Those holes could be seen from outer space! I nearly confronted Emily but chickened out—she’d only deflect. Instead, I rummaged through my cupboard, thrust a pair of new socks at Oliver (“Wear these, for heaven’s sake”), and got a half-hearted thanks.
After they left, I tossed all night. How did *this* happen? Emily’s got a job, fine, but is that an excuse? At her age, I worked *and* kept house *and* made sure my husband didn’t look like a scarecrow. Can’t she chuck a few socks in the wash? Or pop to Primark? Or is *holey chic* a thing now? It gnaws at me—Emily’s always pristine, manicured nails, while my son’s socks disintegrate. And it’s not just socks—it’s a *symbol*. That she can’t be bothered.
The next day, I rang my friend Beatrice to vent. She sighed. “Maggie, it’s not your circus. They’re grown.” *Grown*? Who’ll step in if Oliver’s dressed like a Dickensian urchin? “Maybe Emily doesn’t see it as her job,” Bea added. “Women today are different.” *Different*? Fine, chase careers, but basic spousal care is *outdated*? I’m not asking her to darn socks by candlelight—just *not* let him resemble a vagrant!
I invited Emily for tea (sans Oliver) and gingerly broached it. “Emily, forgive me, but how can you let Oliver wear *those* socks? He’s your husband.” She blinked. “Margaret, he’s a big boy—he picks his own clothes. I’ve nagged him to buy new ones.” *Big boy*? Then why’s he dressed like a toddler who lost a fight with scissors? I hinted wives should *notice* these things. She just smiled. “We believe in equality. His socks, his problem.” *Equality*? So he looks destitute while she’s in designer heels?
Now I’m torn. Part of me wants to buy Oliver a lifetime supply of socks and *do his laundry*. But the sensible bit knows I shouldn’t. I even asked if they were strapped for cash—he laughed. “Mum, they’re just socks. I’ll toss them.” *Toss them*? Why not now? How do I get through to Emily? Maybe she genuinely thinks it’s not her concern. But it *hurts* seeing my son like this. Did I fail to teach him self-respect?
For now, I’m biting my lip. Still hosting dinners, still sneaking Oliver socks. But it rankles. Those holes aren’t just in the fabric—they’re in the *foundation* of their marriage. And I’ve no idea how to fix it without causing a row. One thing’s certain: my boy deserves better than socks that moonlight as fingerless gloves. As for Emily? She might want to revisit what ‘wife’ means. Or shall I do *that* for her too?
