Last month was my sons birthday. I told him Id visit as a guest.
I raised three boys. Anyone whos lived with four men in the house knows exactly what I mean. I cant fathom how a home can have no dinner ready, or things strewn about the place. Now, at 52, Ive always believed a woman should create a comfortable, safe haven for her mana place he can return to. But my daughter-in-law doesnt seem to think the same.
My eldest married two years ago, and nine months later, they had a daughter. He was 28, she was 20. Emily was still at university, but the eight-year age gap didnt seem to bother my son.
When she was pregnant, she became impossibly difficultconstantly sending my son out for things. First, apples in the morning, then oranges, then flowers. He never argued, always obliged. We hoped things would settle after the baby came, but they didnt.
She breastfed for two monthsthat was it. Then she told him she was exhausted, needed rest. My son, ever patient, asked me to step in. Of course, I couldnt refuse.
While I looked after the baby, Emily spent her days at spas and salons, coming home too tired to even cook dinner for my son after work. I ended up staying a full week with their daughter. She grew accustomed to sleeping till noon, living entirely on her own terms, leaving everything to me.
After a month, I broke. I told them I had to go home. Emily was furious. I knew she wasnt ready, so I visited occasionallybut what I saw horrified me. The house was a mess, the fridge empty.
Too lazy to cook even for her own child. I raised three sonsthis kind of neglect was unacceptable. My son always had home-cooked meals. Last month, on his birthday, I visited, expecting her to cook. Instead, she ordered pizza and sushi.
I dont understand him. Why does he tolerate this? Maybe because they never lived together before marriagehe never saw her true colours. Its eating him up, yet he stays silent.
I want to find a way to make her step up as a wife and mother. But I fear alienating my son. Last month, on his birthday, I stayed late, cleaned the kitchen while they watched television, and tucked my granddaughter into bed myself. The next morning, I handed my son a lettersimple, honestabout what Id seen, what I feared, and how much I loved him. He read it in silence, eyes glistening, then hugged me without a word. A week later, he called. He and Emily were seeing a counselor. Theyre trying. And for the first time, I let myself hope.
