A Mother’s Unwavering Love

Mothers Love

Emily, its Margaret Turner. Have you fed Thomas yet? The voice on the other end of the line sounded as if she was asking not about her thirty-two-year-old son, a software developer, but perhaps a kitten that Id forgotten on the patio.

I squeezed my eyes shut and held the phone to my ear. On the kitchen table, steamed salmon with broccoli was still piping hot. Thomas was drying his hair after his evening run, fresh and trim.

Hello, Mrs Turner. Of course, Ive fed him. Were just about to have dinner now.

And what are you having? came the immediate reply, sharp and suspicious. That rabbit food and bland fish again? Men need proper meat! Protein! I heard on the telly just yesterday that skinny men die earlier. Are you trying to send him to an early grave with all these diets of yours?

Thomas, recognising the tone, rolled his eyes and mimed, Say Im not here. But the thing was, he was always here his presence and his lean physique filled the room, a silent but heavy weight between us.

Mrs Turner, its his choice. He feels great, and his doctor is very pleased with his results.

Doctors! she scoffed. They just love their paperwork! Im his mother. I can see. His cheeks are drawn, bones showing. He used to be such a fine man, and now… Can’t you make him a proper stew for once? Something with beef on the bone! Ill bring one round tomorrow, unless you think hes not worth the price of proper meat.

There you have it. Every day, like clockwork, my phone burst to life at six, and I knew who itd be. Margaret Turner. My mother-in-law. Supervisor, inspector and head judge of all things good wife.

And to think, it all began so promisingly.

***

Eight months ago, Thomas came back from a work health check in bits. He slumped on the sofa, undid his belt, sighing as though hed just run a marathon.

Em, Im in trouble, he said quietly.

My mind started racing: his heart? Liver? Terrible diagnoses flashing before my eyes.

Whats happened?

My blood pressures high. The doctor said if I dont sort myself out, Ill be on pills by forty. Cholesterols up. Glucose almost over the limit.

At thirty-two, standing six foot tall and weighing in at fifteen stone, Thomass belly flooded over his belt. His face was round, another chin forming. Five years of office work, quick Tesco meal deals and long hours at a desk had turned my once-sporty husband into a slow, puffy gent, out of breath after a flight of stairs.

Im just tired, he said, after a pause. Tired of being breathless. Tired of shying away on the beach. Ive had enough.

I hugged him. I didnt care what the scales said loved him as he was. But if he wasnt comfortable, if it threatened his health, then something had to change.

Lets do it together, I suggested. Well figure out healthy eating. Find a good gym. Ill cook proper meals but lighter, wholesome stuff.

And thats what we did. Thomas joined a gym, got a personal trainer. I downloaded healthy living apps, bought measuring scales, a proper steamer. We did the shopping together, reading labels, counting protein and carbs.

The first month was hell. Thomas was grumpy, hungry and furious at brown rice and chicken breast. But after a bit, his body caught up. He noticed he didnt crash after lunch, the stairs got easier, his jeans hung a bit looser.

Porridge in the mornings, not with milk but water, nuts and fruit on top. At work he took containers turkey and greens. Dinners were fish, salads, and the occasional baked ricotta. No mayo, no fried stuff, no late-night takeaways. At first, it tasted plain, but then we learned to love the real taste turns out broccolis not bad when done right.

The kilos fell away. Slowly at first, then faster. After three months, hed lost over a stone. After half a year, nearly two. By month eight, the scales read twelve stone nine over two stone down.

He changed so much. Sharper jawline, his eyes bright, a new confidence in the way he moved. Friends and workmates kept asking for his secret. People actually looked twice in the street. I was proud. My husband had done it!

That summer, Margaret had been at her sisters in Devon gone for three months, back in September. They spoke on the phone, but she never laid eyes on Thomas during the transformation.

And then, she returned.

***

I remember that Saturday morning like it was yesterday. Mrs Turner rang the bell, catching us in bed. Thomas opened the door in shorts and a t-shirt.

I heard her gasp from the bedroom.

Thomas! My word, whats happened to you?

I dashed out into the hallway, and there she stood with her Waitrose bags, face drained, eyes wide. Staring at her son like he was a ghost.

Hi Mum, Thomas yawned. Youre up early.

Whats happened? Are you ill? Youve lost… how much? She dropped her bags and started poking him, as though to check he was all there. Bones! Youre just skin and bone! What have you two been doing to him?

That last bit was flung at me. I hovered in the bedroom doorway, already feeling the heat of accusation.

Mum, Im fine, Thomas laughed. I did it on purpose the gym, better food.

On purpose?! she backed away, voice catching. You were perfectly normal before! Solid! And now…

Mrs Turner, hes actually very fit, I offered gently. His doctors delighted. His results have improved.

She stared at me like Id offered her son poison.

This is all your doing! These rabbit diets? she trembled. Are you starving him?

Mum! Thomas snapped. No ones starving me. I chose this. I was sick of being overweight.

Overweight?! she threw her hands up. You were just stocky! Men are meant to be sturdy, not wisps!

At six foot and twelve stone nine, he was hardly a wisp. He looked brilliant and healthy. But for her, healthy was the cuddly, wheezing son shed known.

Shed brought beef stew, roast potatoes, and a potato pie. All laid on the table, order issued: Thomas, eat.

Mum, thanks, but weve already had breakfast, he tried.

What, that bird feed? She peered into the kitchen at our two bowls of half-eaten porridge and berries. Thats not breakfast! Thats for robins! Sit and eat proper food.

Thomas gave me an apologetic look and sat. Ate a bowl of stew for her sake. She watched over every mouthful and only then relaxed.

Thats better, she declared. This is what he needs, not salads and fish. Ill start coming over more often, checking up properly.

After she left, Thomas groaned on the sofa, hand on his stomach.

Ill be digesting this for hours, he whined. Not used to it anymore.

And from then, the phone calls started.

***

The first came at precisely six.

Emily, its Margaret. What did Thomas eat for lunch today?

I was caught off guard.

Hello. He had a packed lunch turkey and vegetables.

Turkey? That dry bird? He needs pork or beef, darling. And what were the veg?

Sweet peppers, tomato, cucumber

Thats not a meal, she scoffed. Thats garnish! Where are the chips? Or at least some pasta? A man needs carbohydrates.

I tried explaining that he got carbs from brown rice, his plan was balanced, that the personal trainer approved. She didnt hear a word.

I know how to feed men. I raised Thomas strong and healthy, and now look what youve done. Ill make proper meatballs and bring them tomorrow.

The next day, she called about breakfast. Omelette three whites and a slice of wholemeal toast.

Three whites? What did you do with the yolks? The vitamins are in the yolk! Are you rationing eggs?

No, but the yolks are full of cholesterol, and hes got to watch his levels.

Nonsense! Doctors made that up to sell pills. My dad ate five a day and lived to eighty!

Pointless to argue.

Day three: Has he been going to the gym?

Yes, four times a week.

Four? Thats dangerous! Hell drop dead from exhaustion! Hasnt he any sense?

Mrs Turner, hes supervised. Everythings fine.

Those personal trainers just want your money, she snorted. Thomas is too old for all that pumping iron. Itll ruin him. You understand that, dont you?

Teeth clenched, I held my tongue. Thomas, just home and full of energy, felt amazing. But in his mums mind, he was wasting away.

Day four, she called at 8 am as we were leaving for work.

Emily, maybe its worms. Thats what happens, you know. When men lose weight, it can be worms. Has he been checked?

I almost dropped the phone.

Mrs Turner, hes fine.

He should get tests. Thyroid too. And his stomach. Maybe its ulcers? People lose weight from ulcers.

I passed the phone to Thomas. He tried to reassure her, but as always: You dont know what youre doing to yourself. Ill be round this evening.

She turned up with a chicken and rice pilaf and apple turnovers. Thomas, out of politeness, ate a little, looking absolutely miserable. He didnt want to offend her, but he didnt want to upset me or his new regime either.

After she left, he sighed, Sorry. Shes just old-fashioned. Doesnt get it.

Thomas, thisll never stop unless you put your foot down.

Shell settle down. Get used to it.

But she didnt. Call after call, sometimes twice a day. And the questions became stranger.

Do you have hot water? Maybe hes cold all the time.

Does he ask for snacks at night, and you refuse?

I heard protein shakes are rubbish for you. Is he drinking those chemicals?

She rang round her friends and cousins, telling everyone I was starving him. One day, Thomass aunt called him at work, asking if he needed financial help!

Financial help? he laughed.

Well, your mum says youre quite unwell, maybe the doctors too expensive

Thomas was furious. He rang his mother and tried to explain that telling everyone he was dying was a touch dramatic. She burst into tears, said he didnt love her if he didnt listen, that she was worried sick and would end up in her grave if this continued.

He apologised and promised theyd visit more.

***

A week later, we went to hers. Thomas put on his old shirt, now hanging off him. She had a feast ready: roast chicken, chips, potato salad, cake the works.

Come in, come in. Thomas love, eat! You need building up.

I knew it was a trap. If he refused food, itd be a row. If he caved, everything hed done was for nothing.

He managed a little roast chicken and some salad with no mayo. Politely ignored the chips and pudding. Mrs Turners face was thunder.

Not even the cake? she asked quietly, her voice trembling. I baked it just for you. Got up at six.

Mum, Im sorry. I just cant. Im following a proper plan.

Plan? This is starvation! Look at yourself! She turned on me. Its you, isnt it? Youve made him do this! Youre thin, so now he must be too!

I choked on my tea.

Mrs Turner, I dont

Oh, don’t defend yourself. Men never choose their own dinner! Its wives who control the kitchen. And you cook grass! Those lunchboxes, Ive seen whats in them? Lettuce and more lettuce!

Theres meat, grains, vegetables

Dont argue with me! I raised him right for thirty-two years, and youve turned him into an invalid in under one!

Thomas stood up.

Mum, stop. Emily hasnt done anything wrong.

Oh, go on then, stick up for your wife! Ignore your own mother! she flared up. I raised you alone. And now you wont even eat my cooking!

We left in silence. Back in the car, Thomass jaw was locked tight. I stared out the window, boiling.

That evening, she rang me.

Emily, Im sorry if I said too much. I just worry, you see. Im his mother. It hurts to see him like this. He was such a handsome boy and now

He still is, I replied firmly.

For you, maybe, she sighed. But everyone else says hes wasting away. Hes barely recognisable. Do you not see what this looks like? As if youre broke and cant even feed him?

Were fine.

Then why isnt he eating like he did?

I was exhausted. Completely and utterly drained by explaining myself, fielding the calls, being painted as a negligent wife.

***

Things just got worse. The daily calls continued. Questions about what I was cooking, whether Thomas might be faint, dizzy, if Id noticed anything odd. She tracked my every move.

She even called my office once, much to my colleagues confusion.

Emily, theres a Mrs Turner on line one she says its important.

Nerves jangling, I called Thomas. He answered instantly.

Hey, love?

Your mum tried me, thought youd collapsed.

Oh he mumbled, Phone was on silent in a meeting.

I phoned Mrs Turner back, reassured her.

Thank goodness, she sighed. I was worried hed fainted from hunger. I saw a thing on the news last night going thin too soon is dangerous! The skin sags, organs drop. Has he seen a doctor since the weight loss?

Yes. Hes fine.

Which doctor?

GP.

What about a heart specialist? Endocrinologist? Gastro-whatever?

Why? Hes not ill!

Not yet, she muttered. But those things creep up. You never know

I covered my face, groaning. My colleague patted my shoulder.

Mother-in-law? she guessed.

I nodded.

Mine was the same. Wanted to know if Id pressed my husbands shirts. Eventually I put my foot down. Husband sided with me. She made up with us after six months.

But I couldnt do that to Thomas. Margaret was all alone; she lost her husband ten years ago and had only him. So yes she was scared of losing him, of him becoming someone she didnt know; but still, her interference was suffocating.

That evening, I told Thomas, We need to talk.

He grew wary. About what?

Your mum, Thomas. I cant do it any more. She rings daily. She questions every meal you eat and blames me for starving you. Its just exhausting.

Shes just worried.

I know, but her worry cant run our lives! She treats me like a dodgy childminder as if I cant even keep you going.

She doesnt mean that

Really? Is that why she keeps checking if Ive fed you? Brings over meals to hint that I cant cook? Phones me at work to see if youre even alive?

Thomas stared down.

Tell her to stop ringing me. If she wants to know how you are, she can call you. Not me.

Alright. Ill speak to her.

He did. The calls stopped for two days. Then they started again but to him. Five a day. Soon he was snappy, losing patience. Eventually, he threw his phone on the sofa, swearing.

Thats enough! Ive had it!

What happened? I asked.

She wont let up! Morning, noon, evening does my head hurt, am I dizzy, you name it! Its like she thinks Im terminally ill!

I hugged him.

We need to sit down and talk together. Explain youre fine, you chose this, and she needs to respect it.

She wont accept it, he despaired.

We have to try.

***

We all met Saturday at hers. Table set as always, but Thomas didnt sit this time.

Mum, we need to talk, he started.

She froze with a plate of pasties still in her hands.

About what?

About the last two months. Your constant calls. The way you treat Emily. The fact you cant accept my choices.

She set the plate down, all the colour drained from her face.

I just worry about you. Its my right.

Worry, yes but not control. Im thirty-two, Mum. A grown man. I have my own family. I decide what I eat.

Is it you, or is it her? she glanced my way.

Mum, stop. No one is controlling me. I wanted to lose weight. The doctor said if I kept on as I was, Id be on pills or worse before forty. Now look Im so much better. So much healthier.

But you look gaunt! Youre not yourself!

I am myself just the one I should have been. I was overweight, Mum. I struggled to climb stairs. Thats not right at my age.

You werent overweight, she insisted stubbornly. You were just sturdy. Thats how men should be.

No. I had too much weight. And I fixed it.

She broke down, tears trickling down her cheeks as she sat.

Im just scared. If something happens to you Youre all I have.

Thomas crouched beside her, holding her hand.

Mum, nothing will happen. Im healthier than ever. My check-ups are great lower blood pressure, more energy, Im fine. Please, dont worry.

But what if youve lost too much?

My weight is spot on for my height, Mum. Twelve stone nine, at six foot thats healthy. I feel good.

She was silent for a long time.

So why do you need these gyms and all the new food? We got on fine back in my day.

People were more active then, I put in. You walked more, didnt sit at desks all day. Food didnt have as much sugar and additives. Now, we have to make an effort.

She looked at me, pained.

Youre taking my son from me.

I was shocked.

I couldnt even if I wanted to. Hes your son, always will be.

Before, he came round, ate my food, chatted for hours. Now he just says no to everything. I feel like a stranger.

Mrs Turner, I said, sitting across from her. It isnt about the food. Love isnt measured by slices of pie. He loves you, always, but he cant eat things that make him unwell just to show it.

She whispered, Feeding him was my way of caring. Now, Im not needed.

It hit me then: she wasnt being awful. She was lost. Giving food was her love language, and now she didnt know how else to be close.

You are needed, I told her. Just not only as a cook. He wants to spend time with you. But he cant handle being cross-examined every day.

She regarded me for a long moment.

I never meant to hurt you, she said at length. I just didnt know what else to do.

If you want to cook for him, well give you healthy recipes, I offered. Or come over and well make something together. But please no more daily check-ups.

She nodded, dabbing at her eyes.

Ill try, she promised, a bit uncertainly.

We left with a sense of relief. Thomas squeezed my hand as we drove.

Thanks for not losing it, he murmured. I know its hard for you.

It is, I confessed. But its even harder for her, now I see.

She wont be left behind, he said.

Thats your job to prove, not mine.

***

For a week, the calls stopped. I started to believe everything might actually settle. On day eight, at half five, my phone buzzed.

Emily, its Margaret. Would you and Thomas like to come Sunday? I found a healthy grilled salmon recipe online. Hardly any oil at all. And salad. They say its good for you.

My breath caught. There was a warmth in her tone.

Wed love to, I replied.

She was quiet for a moment. Thank you for being patient. When I saw Thomas, I panicked. Thought I was losing him.

Youre not, Mrs Turner.

I know. Now, I do.

She rang off. Thomas, fresh from the shower, saw my face.

What is it? he asked.

Your mums invited us for Sunday. Healthy salmon.

He grinned. Shes trying.

Yes, I said quietly, she really is.

But Saturday evening, the phone rang again. Her voice was anxious.

Sorry to bother, but can Thomas eat carrots? Or beetroot? The recipe says theyre a bit high in sugar.

I breathed out.

Yes, Mrs Turner. Alls fine in reasonable amounts.

How much is reasonable? A hundred grams? Two hundred?

A hundreds plenty.

And which fish is best? Salmon or cod? Salmons oily, maybe not good?

Salmons perfect, healthy oils.

Oh… see, I thought fat was bad. Ok, Ill get salmon! Oh, and do you cook buckwheat with water, or can I add a dab of butter?

This was going to take time. She wouldnt stop worrying overnight. But now, at least, she was trying, willing to adjust.

With water butters fine, just a teaspoon.

Ive written it down. Thanks, Emily. Sorry for being a pest.

Its okay.

I just want it to be right, thats all. For both of you.

Well love it.

She said goodbye, and Thomas, whod half heard, shook his head.

So now shell ask you about every new meal?

Looks like it.

Better than telling me Im dying.

Much better, I laughed.

***

That Sunday, we went round. The table was modest: baked salmon with lemon and herbs, roast veg, buckwheat, salad without mayo. And a tiny bit of cake, more for show than anything.

I put my heart into it, she admitted. If you dont like it, tell me.

Thomas closed his eyes after his first bite of salmon.

Mum, this is brilliant.

She beamed.

Really? I was worried I overcooked it.

Its perfect, I agreed. Youre a natural.

She flushed pink.

Could you teach me those protein smoothies sometime? she blurted, half hopeful.

Easily.

We ate. We laughed, talked about the neighbours, her roses, a show shed started on telly. She didnt ask what Thomas had eaten earlier. She didnt check the fridge. She didnt push for secondsjust enjoyed having her son with her.

As we said our goodbyes, she hugged me for the first time, tight.

Thank you, she whispered. For staying. For helping me understand.

Itll be alright, I promised.

Back home, Thomas squeezed my hand.

Feels like the start of a change, he murmured.

Lets hope so.

Three days passed. Then, just before six, theres her name on my phone.

Emily, its Margaret. Have you fed Thomas today?

I froze.

Yes, Mrs Turner, I replied, keeping my voice calm.

What did he eat?

Then it hit me: this might never end. Her need to be part of his life, to confirm shes still needed, lovedthat wont change quickly.

Mrs Turner, I said gently. If you want to know what Thomas eats, ask him. Hes a grown man. He can tell you himself.

But

No, listen. I cant update you about every single meal. Its not right. Not normal. If youre worried, come over. See for yourself. But no more daily interrogations, please.

She was quiet. Just her breathing on the line.

Youre right, she said at last. Sorry. Its habit, I suppose.

I know. But habits can change.

They can, she agreed. Ill try.

She hung up.

Thomas came in, eyebrows raised.

Everything okay?

Well see, I told him. But I said what Ive been needing to say for a long time.

He hugged me close.

Im proud of you.

Im worn out, I admitted, leaning on him. Worn out from always having to prove Im your wife, not a carer.

I know. Sorry I didnt help sooner… But I will now.

Promise me, I said.

I promise.

And for a week, no calls. Then another. And suddenly, I thought maybe the lines had finally been drawn.

But then, Friday night, the doorbell rang. I opened it to Margaret with a little bag.

Evening, Emily. Hope Im not intruding?

No, come in.

She took off her shoes, went straight to the kitchen and pulled a container from her bag.

I made you both a veggie stew. Hardly any oil at all. Just wanted you to try itlet me know what you think.

Thomas gave her a hug.

Thanks, Mum.

Oh, dont fuss. Still getting the hang of it dont be harsh critics!

We had her stew for dinner. It was lovely. Margaret watched us eat and smiled.

Like it?

Its delicious, Thomas said.

Im glad. I really am.

She left after an hour. No questions about what wed eaten, no fridge raids, not a spot of naggingjust time together, laughing over tea.

When the door closed behind her, Thomas put his arms around me.

I think she really is trying.

Looks that way, I agreed.

But I knew, deep down, it was a fragile peace. There would be more slips, more hints, more attempts to take back control. Old habits die hard; the struggle for attention, for boundaries and respect, would carry on.

Still, now I knew I could say no. I could draw a line. I didnt have to accept endless questioning, justifying, apologising. I had the right to my life with my husband. And he would back me up.

The phone rang at six sharp on Monday.

Margaret Turner.

I answered.

Emily, hi darling. Hope Im not bugging you. Are you free this weekend? Would you come over and show me those curd pancakes you make? The ones without flour. Could you help?

I exhaled.

Of course, Mrs Turner. Wed love to.

She promised to call again. This time, all she wanted was to learn; not to check, not to scold.

Thomas nodded when he heard.

Is that progress?

Tiny progress, I smiled, but its still progress.

He kissed the top of my head.

Shes trying.

She is, I echoed.

And somewhere deep down, I hoped that maybe, one day soon, her calls would just be calls. Not checks or challenges just chats, between people who love each other and are trying to learn a new way of caring.

But for now, as the phone finally fell silent, the healthy dinner cooled on the worktop and all of December pressed in through the windows, all I could know was this: it wasnt won, and it wasnt lost. The line had been drawn. And on this side, it was us. Together.