A Mother’s Love

A Mothers Love

Emily, its Mrs. Eileen Brown. Have you fed Matthew today? The voice on the phone was sweet but worried, as though she was asking about a stray kitten, not a thirty-two-year-old software developer.

I squeezed my eyes shut, clutching the phone to my ear. On the kitchen table, a cloud of steam curled above a dish of freshly poached salmon with broccoli. Matthew was towelling off after his evening run, skin flushed from the shower, nimble and slender in his dressing gown.

Hello, Mrs. Brown. Of course. Were just about to sit down for dinner.

What are you making? she shot back immediately. Not still that green stuff and tasteless fish, surely? Men need proper meat! Calories! I saw on telly yesterday: skinny men die younger. Youre not trying to send him to an early grave with all these diets, are you?

Matthew had heard her tone through the open door. He rolled his eyes and gestured: Tell her Im not here. But his absence was only physical; the ghost of his new self hung between us, a silent, invisible weight.

Mrs. Brown, this is his choice. He feels great. His GP was delighted with his check-up results.

Doctors they only love their paperwork! she sniffed. Im his mother, I can see for myself. His cheeks are hollow, bones sticking out. He used to be so solid a proper man and now Look, you could at least make him a decent stew a real Sunday roast! Ill pop round tomorrow. Or dont you want to spend for a little meat?

And so it went, every day. Exactly by six oclock, my mobile would buzz, and Id know Mrs. Brown. My mother-in-law. Foreman, Auditor, and Chief Magistrate of my performance as a wife.

It hadnt always been like this.

***

Eight months prior, Matthew returned from his work medical pale as a ghost. He sat on the sofa, loosened his belt, exhaled as if hed been running a marathon for hours.

Em, Ive got a problem, he said quietly.

My stomach dropped. Was it his heart? Liver? A thousand terrifying diagnoses flickered through my mind.

What happened?

My blood pressures through the roof. Doc says if I dont sort myself out, Ill be on pills by forty. Cholesterols up too. My blood sugars almost at the limit.

He was thirty-two then. Six foot tall, fifteen stone, his belly spilling over his belt, his face round, a second chin forming. Five years of office work, grab-and-go lunches, and a sedentary routine had transformed my slim young man into a breathless, doughy uncle.

Im tired, he confessed. Tired of wheezing up the stairs, tired of feeling awkward at the beach. Ive had enough.

I hugged him. I loved him, whatever the scales said. But if he felt uncomfortable, if it was hurting his health, it was time for a change.

Lets do this together, I said. Well learn what to eat, find a good gym. Ill cook healthy for us both.

And we did. Matthew got a membership at IronWorks gym and found a personal trainer. I downloaded every meal-planning app I could find, bought kitchen scales and a steamer. We shopped together, read labels, counted calories and protein.

The first month was hell. Matthew was irritable, hungry, cursing at plain porridge and chicken breast without gravy. But then his body started adjusting. He noticed he no longer crashed after lunch, stairs felt easier, his jeans were loose.

I cooked him porridge, not with milk but with water, laced with berries and almonds for breakfast. For lunch, hed pack a tub of turkey and roasted veg. Dinners were fish, salads, sometimes a sugarless cottage cheese bake. We binned the mayo and fast food. At first, it all tasted bland, but soon we found the natural flavours, and yes, broccoli has a charm if you give it a little magic.

He lost weight steadily. Seven pounds in the first month, then twelve by six months. After eight months, the scales read 12 stone. That was over two stone gone!

He looked completely different. His face was sharp, cheekbones distinct, eyes brighter. His body taut, energetic, confident.

Friends and colleagues noticed and wouldn’t stop complimenting him. People at work pestered him for his secret, women in the street took a second glance. I was proud my man had done it! Hed changed his life with grit and will.

That same summer, Mrs. Brown spent months with her sister on the south coast. She left in June, returned in early September, not seeing her son for three months. Theyd only spoken on the phone on the phone, no one sees the waistband.

Then she came back.

***

That day is imprinted on my mind. Mrs. Brown turned up Saturday morning, unannounced. We were still in bed. Matthew opened the door in his pants and an old t-shirt.

I heard her gasp from down the hall.

Matthew! Good heavens, whats become of you?

I darted out in my nightie. She stood in the doorway clutching shopping bags, face pale, eyes huge, as if shed seen a ghost.

Hi Mum, Matthew muttered sleepily. Youre early.

Whats happened to you?! Are you ill? How much have you lost? she dropped her bags and seized his shoulders, prodding and pinching like she was checking a cut of meat at the butchers. Bones everywhere! Like a fence post! What have you done to him?!

That last bit was for me. Standing in the bedroom doorway, I felt the cloud of blame descend, though she hadnt said a word to me directly yet.

Mum, Im fine, Matthew chuckled. I just lost weight. On purpose. Im exercising and eating better.

On purpose?! she recoiled, scandalised. Why?! You were a real man before! Upstanding! Now you look emaciated!

Mrs. Brown, hes not wasting away, I tried gently. Hes in brilliant form. All the tests are better, the doctors chuffed.

She looked at me as though Id offered her son poison.

Your idea, was it? Her voice trembled. Have you been starving him?

Mum! Matthew snapped. Enough. Nobodys starving me. I decided for myself. I was sick of being overweight.

Overweight?! Her hands flew up. You were just solid! Men are meant to be sturdy, not like cocktail sticks!

At six foot and 12 stone, Matthew was hardly frail. Just healthy. But to his mum, normal was the chubby boy hed been.

Shed brought stew with lamb shank, roast potatoes, and half a homemade cabbage pie. She set it on the table and insisted Matthew eat at once.

Thanks, Mum, but weve had breakfast, he tried to wriggle away.

Breakfast? She peered in, disapprovingly, at two bowls of porridge and some fruit on the table. Thats not breakfast! Thats for sparrows! Sit down, eat properly.

Matthew sighed, gave me an apologetic glance, then obeyed. He ate through a bowl of stew, and only then did his mums frown relax.

See, thats how you eat, she said, stacking her pots. Forget all these salads and fish. Men need meat, fat, something that sticks to your ribs. Ill be around more often, keep an eye on things.

After she left, Matthew lay groaning on the sofa.

My stomach will be heavy for hours, he winced. Im just not used to it.

The calls began the next day.

***

First call, sharp at six.

Emily, its Mrs. Brown. What did Matthew have for lunch?

I was taken aback.

Hello. He took packed turkey and veg to work.

Turkey? she sounded disapproving. That dry bird? He needs pork, with a bit of fat. Or beef. What veg?

Bell peppers, tomatoes, some cucumber

Thats not a meal, she cut me off. Thats garnish for garnish. Where are the potatoes? Pasta? Men cant survive without carbs!

I explained the protein, the wholegrains, the trainers advice. She listened in silence, then said:

I know how to feed men. I raised Matthew a strapping lad, and look at him now after just a few months. Tomorrow, Ill bring homemade shepherds pies. Real food.

Second day, again.

What did Matthew have for breakfast?
An egg-white omelette, wholegrain toast and herbs.
Three egg whites? What about the yolks? Thats where the vitamins are! Are you rationing the eggs now?
No, its just less cholesterol
Cholesterol thats all medical scaremongering! My dad ate a half dozen eggs daily and lived to eighty.

No use arguing.

Third day: is Matthew actually going to that gym?

Yes, four times a week.
Four? Thats excessive! Hell do himself damage!
He has a personal trainer, everythings safe.
Trainers daylight robbery. Hes not a boy anymore; he should be taking it easy, not lifting like a circus strongman!

I clenched my teeth. Matthew came back from his workout bright-eyed, grinning, blood pressure settled, energy to spare. But to his mum, he looked at deaths door.

Fourth day, morning: had I considered Matthew might have worms? It makes them lose weight, you know.

I nearly dropped the phone.

Mrs. Brown, hes healthy.

Have you had him tested? Thyroid checked? Stomach? What if its ulcers?

I handed the phone to Matthew. He tried to explain he was fine, losing weight intentionally, under control. She listened, then replied:

You just dont realise what youre losing. Ill be round tonight.

She arrived with a vat of paella and crusty rolls. Matthew couldnt refuse, ate a token amount for her sake. He shot me an embarrassed look. Not eating made him uncomfortable with her eating made him uncomfortable with me.

Shes old, Em, he muttered after she left. She doesnt get it.

If you dont set boundaries, I warned, itll carry on forever.

Shell get used to it, he hoped.

She didnt. Calls continued. Sometimes two a day. Her worries bordered on the absurd.

Do you have hot water? Maybe hes wasting away from cold baths.

Does Matthew ask for food at night? Are you not letting him snack after supper?

I hear protein shakes are full of chemicals. Is he drinking them?

Shed ring round the family with tales of her starving son. One day, his aunt phoned at work, offering help for his health crisis.

What help? he asked, baffled.
Your mum said youre terribly ill. Need a doctor? Money for treatment?

That night he confronted his mum for spreading stories. She wept, said he didnt love her anymore, couldnt sleep for worry, that his behaviour would be the death of her.

He apologised. Promised hed visit more so shed see for herself he was fine.

***

One week later, we went round. Matthew donned his old shirt: once tight, now baggy. Mrs. Brown awaited us with a grand spread. Roast chicken, chips, a hearty salad, pie, cake.

Sit down, love, bustling. You need to put a bit back on.

I saw the trap: if Matthew refused to eat, thered be a row. If he gave in, all the hard effort could unravel.

He had a taste of chicken and a bit of salad, refused the chips and cake. Mrs. Brown sat stoney-faced.

Arent you even going to try my pie? she croaked, eyes watering. I got up at six to bake.

Mum, Im sorry, he said, wincing. I have to stick to my plan.

What plan? She flared. Hunger strike? Look at you! Skin and bone! she turned on me. This is your doing! Youre making him like you, with your grass and nuts!

I nearly choked on my tea.

Mrs. Brown, this is his choice

Choice, my foot! Men never choose what to eat. Its the wife who decides and youre feeding him weeds! I know what goes in those containers. Nothing but green bits!

Theres meat, grains, veg its balanced

Dont argue! she snapped. I dont tell you how to do your job dont tell me how to feed my boy! Ive fed him for thirty-two years; he was never sickly before you!

Matthew stood.

Mum, thats enough. Its not Emilys fault.

Of course defend her! Sides with the wife, scolds the mother! I raised you single-handed after your father died, and now here you are, under her thumb

She let the sentence hang in the air.

We left in silence. In the car, Matthew gripped the wheel, jaw working. I stared through the window, boiling.

That evening, she rang me.

Emily, Im sorry for the things I said, she tone softer. I just worry. You see, Im his mum. It hurts, seeing him like this. He was always so handsome, now

He still is, I said firmly.

Maybe to you, she sighed. But all our friends say hes gone thin. People hardly recognise him. It looks like youre struggling, like you havent enough for food

Were fine.

So why doesnt he eat properly?

I was tired. Tired of explaining, tired of defending, tired of being painted as the bad wife.

***

Every day her calls continued. Asking what I was cooking, how often Matthew ate, whether he had headaches, was dizzy monitoring me at every turn.

One day, she rang me at work. My colleague handed the phone as if it were a ticking bomb.

Emily, its Mrs. Brown. Matthews not picking up. Is he alright?

My heart sank.

Ive no idea, Im at work. Ill try to ring him.

I called Matthew. He answered instantly.

Hey, love. Whats up?

Your mums worried. She cant get through.

Ahh, he said sheepishly. Phone was on silent for a meeting.

I called back to reassure her.

Thank goodness! I thought hed fainted from hunger or something.

Hes not starving, Mrs. Brown.

Well, if you say so. But last night, I saw a documentary: losing weight too fast is awful. The skin sags, organs sink. Has he seen a doctor since the weight loss?

Yes. Hes fine.

Which doctor?

The surgery GP.

Not a gut specialist? Cardiologist? Endocrinologist?

Why would he? Hes not ill!

Not now later on. My friend tried slimming and got awful ulcers.

I hung up and pressed my face to my hands. My coworkers looked on with sympathy.

Was that the mother-in-law? someone guessed.

I nodded.

Mine used to check whether my husbands shirts were ironed every day until I told him: her, or me. He chose me. She sulked for half a year before moving on.

I couldnt make Matthew choose. Mrs. Brown was alone widowed a decade ago, friends but no one close, Matthew was her world. I knew she was scared of losing him, of him slipping away, of losing meaning. But I couldnt bear the constant intrusions.

That evening I said:

We need to talk.

He looked wary.

About your mum. I cant go on. She calls daily, controls everything you eat, blames me for starving you. I just cant.

She just worries, Em.

I know. But her worry is consuming our lives. Dont you see? She treats me like an incompetent nanny not your partner.

She doesnt mean

Then what does she mean, asking if Im feeding you, dropping round with stew, calling my office to check youre alive?

Matthew was quiet, staring at the carpet.

Tell her to stop calling me at work, I said. If she wants to ask about you, let her call you not me.

Alright, he said gently. Ill talk to her.

He did. Mrs. Brown went quiet for two days, then started up again only this time, she called Matthew directly. Five times a day. He became snappy, frustrated. One evening, he tossed his phone onto the sofa and swore.

Enough! I cant stand it!

What now?

Shes driving me mad ringing morning, noon, night! Am I dizzy, does my stomach hurt, do I feel faint? Am I dying, or what?

I hugged him.

Its time for all of us to sit down and talk. Be honest. Tell her youre healthy and its your choice, and she must respect it.

She wont understand, he said, hopeless.

We have to try.

***

We arranged to visit on Saturday. Mrs. Brown set the table, but this time Matthew didnt sit.

Mum, we need to talk, he began.

She froze with a plate of pies in hand.

About all thats happened these past couple of months. Your calls, how you treat Emily, your refusal to accept my decision.

She set the plate down, knuckles white.

I dont understand.

Mum, you call every day. You police my meals. You bring food I no longer want. You blame Emily for not mothering me as you would. It needs to stop.

She paled.

I worry. Im your mother. Thats my place.

Of course you can worry. But not micromanage every bite. Im thirty-two, Mum. I have my own family now. My life, my rules.

Are they your rules, or hers? Her eyes flicked to me.

Mum!

Say it! You used to love my cooking. Now, you turn your nose up! Its her shes brainwashed you with all these diets!

No one brainwashed me, said Matthew, firm. I wanted healthier. I struggled. My doctor told me I was running into trouble. I changed and I feel better. Loads better. Full of energy. Isnt it obvious?

I see you thinner by two stone! Gaunt, not yourself anymore!

Im my real self. The person I should have been. I was fat, out of breath on stairs. Thats not right at my age.

You werent fat, she insisted. You were normal. Men are meant to be well-built.

No. I was overweight. Now Im not.

She suddenly started to cry. She wiped her cheek and sat down.

Im frightened, she whispered. Frightened that youll get ill, that Ill lose you. Youre my only child. If anything happened to you, I dont know what Id do.

Matthew sat beside her, grasping her hand.

Im fine, Mum. In fact, I’m healthier than ever. If Id gone on as I was, Id have been on tablets already. Or worse: heart attack, stroke. Thats the risk with excess weight. I dodged it, Mum.

But what if youre too thin, now? Maybe thats dangerous, too.

Im not too thin. Twelve stone at six feet tall is bang on. Im comfortable.

She sat in silence, hands knotted.

Why all this gym business, all these superfoods? she asked softer. People didnt used to bother they ate properly, and lived.

People moved more, I offered. Less desk work, more walking. Food used to be simpler, fewer additives. These days, you have to try a bit harder.

She looked at me, and for a moment, I saw not anger, but heartbreak.

Youre taking him from me, she said.

I was stunned.

Im not how can I take him from you? Hes your son. Id never try to take your place.

He used to eat my food, talk to me, need me. Now, he visits and turns things down. I feel like a stranger.

Mrs. Brown, I said gently, its not about food. Love isnt measured in slices of pie. Matthew loves you, but he cant eat things that dont suit him just to prove it.

Ive fed him all his life, she whispered. Its all I know. Cooking for him, looking after him. Now its redundant.

And suddenly I understood. She wasnt mean, just adrift. Food was her language of love. Now that language had lost its meaning.

Matthew needs you, I said. But as his mum not as his chef. He wants to spend time with you: walk, chat, go to the cinema. But without the pressure, without being policed or judged.

She looked at me a long while, struggling inside.

I never meant to hurt you, at last she said. I just didnt know what else to do. How to get him to eat right.

He does eat right. It’s just different now.

Matthew squeezed her hand.

If you want to cook for me, try something healthy. Emily will share recipes. Or come round, we can cook together. But please, stop phoning Emily about every meal. It belittles her, and me.

Mrs. Brown nodded, dabbing her eyes.

Ill try, she promised, unsure.

We left with a cautious hope. Matthew squeezed my hand in the car.

Thank you for not losing your cool, he said. I know its draining.

It is, I admitted. But for her, it’s even harder. Shes scared of being left behind.

She wont be.

You have to show her that, not me.

***

For a week, silence. I hoped things were changing. But on the eighth day she called at half past five.

Emily, its Mrs. Brown.

My grip tightened on the phone.

Hello.

I had a thought. Perhaps you and Matthew could come this Sunday? I found a recipe for baked fish and vegetables hardly any oil. And salad. Supposedly very good for you.

I was almost speechless.

Wed love to.

And Emily, she hesitated, Im sorry. For everything. I didnt mean to be cruel. I just panicked, seeing Matthew like that. Thought I was losing him.

Youre not, Mrs. Brown.

I know now.

She hung up. I sat in the kitchen holding the phone. Matthew poked his head in, saw my face.

Whats wrong?

Your mum. Shes invited us for healthy fish on Sunday.

He smiled slowly.

Shes trying.

She is.

But Saturday evening she called again, nervous.

Emily, sorry to bother. Just checking is Matthew allowed carrots? What about beetroot? The recipe says theyre quite calorific

I sighed.

He can have them. Everything in moderation.

Whats moderation, dear? A hundred grams? Two?

A hundred is plenty.

And which fish is best? Salmon or cod? Salmons a bit fatty. Is that alright?

Salmons great its full of good fat.

Oh, I thought fat was bad. Alright, Ill get salmon. Also, how do I cook buckwheat? Plain water? A dab of butter?

I realised she might fret for years, but at least now she was trying. Trying to adapt. That was something.

On water, I answered. But a teaspoon of butter wont hurt.

Got it. Thank you, Emily. Youre not cross about the calls?

Not at all.

I just want everything to go well. For you both to feel at home.

We will.

She hung up.

Matthew, whod overheard, shook his head.

Shell be ringing up about food now, not complaining.

Better than accusations!

Much.

***

On Sunday we visited Mrs. Brown. The table was humbler than before lemony salmon, grilled veg, buckwheat, a salad with no dressing, a small piece of pie just for form. She fussed, worried it wasnt enough.

I tried, she said as we sat. Let me know if anythings not right.

Matthew tasted the fish and closed his eyes, delighted.

Mum, its fantastic.

She lit up.

Really? I was scared Id overdo it the recipe said twenty minutes, I did twenty-five just in case.

Its perfect, I assured her. Youre a star, Mrs. Brown.

She smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear.

Id like to learn your protein shake thingies maybe you could teach me?

Of course.

We ate and talked; she told us about her garden, nosy neighbours, a new TV drama. She didnt check Matthews plate, didnt push seconds, didnt pressure. She just sat and listened.

When we left, she hugged me tightly, truly.

Thank you, she whispered, for not giving up, for helping me understand.

Itll be fine, I promised.

In the car, Matthew squeezed my hand.

I think shes changing.

Maybe.

But three days later she rang at six, my stomach knotting as I saw her name.

Emily, its Mrs. Brown. Have you fed Matthew today?

I paused.

Yes, I have.

What did you make?

And thats when I realised it might never stop completely. Shed keep calling. Perhaps not every day, perhaps with different questions, but always wanting to feel involved, needed, loved.

Mrs. Brown, I said gently but firmly, if you want to know what Matthew eats, ask him. Hes a grown man he can tell you himself.

But

No, listen. Im not going to report every meal to you anymore. It isnt right. If youre worried, come round see for yourself. Talk to your son. But please, stop these daily interrogations.

She was quiet, just breathing.

Youre right, she said at last. Old habits, I suppose.

They can change.

Ill try.

She hung up.

Matthew appeared in the doorway, question in his eyes.

All sorted?

Not sure, I told him honestly, but I finally said what needed saying.

He hugged me.

Im proud of you.

Im just tired, I admitted. Tired of fighting to be your wife, instead of your minder.

I know. Sorry I didnt stand up for you sooner.

Stand up now.

I will.

A week passed. No calls. Then another week. I dared to hope, perhaps she really got it this time. Maybe the line was finally drawn.

But come Friday evening, the doorbell rang. I opened the door, and there was Mrs. Brown with a little bag.

Evening, Emily. Hope Im not intruding.

Come in, please.

She stepped out of her shoes, went to the kitchen, and from her bag produced a container.

I made you both some veggie casserole. Nearly no oil. Give it a go, see if you like it.

Matthew hugged her.

Thanks, Mum.

Dont mention it, she said, awkward but proud. Still figuring your food out, so be gentle.

We tried it later it was lovely. Mrs. Brown watched us eat, smiling.

Do you like it?

Very much, said Matthew.

Good. Then it was worth it.

She left after tea, no lectures, no checks, just company and a warm chat.

Afterwards, Matthew put his arms around me.

She really is trying, isnt she?

She is.

I knew it was fragile thered be setbacks, old habits dying hard. The struggle for space, for respect, for life together would continue.

But at least now I knew I could say no, that my boundaries were real, that I didnt have to explain or justify endlessly, and that my husband would stand beside me.

Monday, right at six, the phone rang.

Emily, its me. Sorry to pester, but are you free this weekend? Maybe you could come over and teach me to make those flourless cottage cheese pancakes you like?

I smiled.

Of course, Mrs. Brown. Wed love to.

She said goodbye and hung up.

Matthew gave me a questioning glance.

Progress? he asked.

A tiny one, I said. But progress nonetheless.

He squeezed my shoulder, kissed my hair.

Shes doing her best.

She is.

And deep down, I hoped that one day these calls would just be calls. No checks, no control, no tightening grip on the past. Just people, loving each other, learning a new rhythm in a changed world.

Tonight, as the phone lay quiet, supper cooling, dusk gathering beyond the window, I stood with my husband and thought: the war isnt won, but neither are we beaten. The line is drawn. And on our side, we stand together.