Motherly Love
So, Emily, this is Diane Hawkins. Have you fed James today? The voice on the other end sounded as if she was checking up on a neglected kitten left out on the balcony, not her own thirty-two-year-old son who works as a software developer.
I closed my eyes, pressing the phone to my ear. On the kitchen table, a cloud of steam rose from freshly poached salmon and bright green broccoli. James was just drying off after his shower, looking trim and perked up after his evening jog.
Hello, Mrs Hawkins. Of course I have. Were just about to sit down to tea.
What with? came the instant reply. Not that rabbit food again and tasteless fish? A man needs meat! Real grub! You know, I was watching telly yesterday and they said slim men dont last as long. Are you trying to put him in an early grave with these diets of yours?
James, catching the familiar tone, rolled his eyes and gestured: Say Im not here. But he wasmaybe not physically on the call, but the new him, his choices, his leaner body, they hung between us like an invisible, heavy weight.
Mrs Hawkins, its his own choice. He feels brilliant. His GP was chuffed with his bloodwork.
GPs only care about paperwork! she snorted. Im his mum, I can tell. His cheeks have sunk, his bones are sticking out. He used to be such a fine figure of a man, now look Honest to god, cant you just boil him up some proper stew, with beef on the bone? Ill bring some round tomorrow. Or are you too stingy for meat?
Every day, six oclock sharp, my mobile would start vibrating and I just knew who it was. Diane Hawkins. My mother-in-law. The self-appointed inspector general of my wifely duties.
And to think, it all started off so well.
***
Eight months back, James came home from his work health check looking as white as the wall. Dropped down on the sofa, unbuckled his belt and let out a sigh as if he’d just run a marathon.
Em, bit of a problem, he said, almost whispering.
I was terrified. Was it his heart? Liver? My mind raced through worst-case scenarios.
Whats happened?
My blood pressures up. The GP said if I dont sort myself out, Ill be on pills by the time Im forty. My cholesterols high as well. My blood sugars flirting with the limit.
He was thirty-two then. About six foot with nearly fifteen stone on him. His belly rolled over his waistband and his face had filled out, a clear double chin settling in. Five years of office job, chain lunches and a sedentary life had slowly turned my slim partner into a breathless, soft-around-the-edges bloke.
You know, he said after a pause, Im just knackered. Sick of puffing up the stairs. Wont go swimming anymoreI cant face the beach. Im done with this.
I wrapped an arm round him. It honestly didnt matter how much he weighedI loved him for who he was. But if he didnt feel right, if it was making him unhealthy, then something had to give.
Lets do it together, I offered. Lets learn whats healthy, find a decent gym. Ill cook us nice, nourishing meals.
And so we did. James got a membership at Titan Fitness Club, hired a personal trainer. I downloaded apps full of healthy recipes, bought a food scale and a steamer. Wed shop together, scrutinise labels, count macros and calories.
The first month was murder. James was snappy, always peckish, cursed at his butterless brown rice and chicken fillets. But slowly, his body got used to the change. He started to notice he wasnt crashing after lunch anymore, the stairs were easier, his jeans slipped loose at the waist.
Id make him porridge in the morningson water, topped with blueberries and walnuts. For lunch, hed pack up containers with turkey and veg. Tea was fish, salads, sometimes a cottage cheese bakeno sugar, mind. We ditched mayo, fried food, takeaways. At first it all felt a bit bland, but gradually we found new flavoursturns out, broccoli can actually taste lovely if you cook it properly.
And then the pounds began to drop. Slowly at first, then faster. Three months in, hed shed over a stone. By six, nearly two. By eight? He was down to twelve-and-a-half stone. Thats over two stone gone!
The change in him was staggering. His face got sharp, cheekbones out again, his eyes looked bigger somehow. He was all lean lines nowfull of energy and confidence.
Everyone at work, his mates, couldnt help but comment. Theyd ask what his secret was, wanted his advice. Women glanced at him in town. I was so chuffed for him, proud beyond words. My husband had really turned it around.
Mrs Hawkins spent that summer at her sisters in Devonoff from June to early September, a full three months of not seeing her son. Sure, they spoke on the phone, but FaceTimes never quite enough to size someone up.
Then she came back.
***
Ill never forget it. Mrs Hawkins turned up at our flat on a Saturday morning, unannounced. We were still in bed. James opened the door in just his boxers and a t-shirt.
I heard her gasp from the bedroom.
James! Good lord, whats happened to you?
I rushed to the hall. She stood there, Sainsburys bags swinging at her sides, gone pale as a sheet and wide-eyed like shed seen a ghost.
Morning, Mum, mumbled James, rubbing at his hair. Bit early, isnt it?
Whats happened?! Are you ill? How much have you lost? She dropped the bags and grabbed his shoulders, prodding and pressing as if checking for broken bones. You look gaunt! All skin and bone! What have you done to him?!
That last bit was aimed squarely at me. I stood there in my dressing gown, barely awake, as the tide of accusation began to rise.
Mum, honestly, James laughed. Im fine. I just lost some weight. Been working out, eating better.
EATING BETTER?! She recoiled. You used to be a proper man! Dignified! Not this this scarecrow!
Mrs Hawkins, hes not underweight, I said gently. Hes in excellent shape. Even the GP was impressed.
She stared at me as if Id slipped her son arsenic.
Its your doing, these daft diets, her voice shook. Have you been starving him?
Mum! James frowned. Enough. I did this myself. I was fed up.
Fed up of what?! You werent overweight! You were sturdy, strong! Thats how a man should be, not a beanpole!
At six-foot and twelve-and-a-half stone, James was well within a normal, healthy weight. But to his mum, the idea of normal still lived in his heavier past.
Shed lugged along a pot of stew made with beef shin, roasted potatoes with lamb, and a big old cabbage pie. She plonked it all out and told James to eat, right now.
Mum, thanks, but weve already had breakfast, he protested.
What did you have? she squinted at the kitchen; two bowls with oats and fruit were still out. Is that it? Porridge and fruit? Thats sparrow food! Sit down and have a proper meal.
James sighed, gave me an apologetic look and sat down, eating a bowl of stew to keep her calm. She sat across, hawk-eyed with every mouthful, and finally her face relaxed.
See? she intoned as she stood to go. This is proper feeding, not those silly salads and fish. Men need meat, proper hearty meals. Ill come round more often, keep an eye on things.
After she left, James flopped on the sofa, his stomach groaning.
Ill be the rest of the afternoon digesting that, he complained. My bodys not used to all that anymore.
Then the calls started.
***
The first came on the dot at six.
Emily, its Diane Hawkins. What did James have for lunch?
I was caught off guard.
Hello, Mrs Hawkins. He packed his lunch as usualturkey and veg.
Turkey? Her disappointment was clear. Dry old bird! He needs pork, something juicy. And what veg?
Peppers, tomatoes, cucumber
Thats not dinner, thats a garnish for garnish. Wheres the potatoes? Wheres the pasta? A man cant live without carbs!
I tried to explain: he gets carbs from grains, his meals are balanced, even his trainer backs it up. She listened in stony silence, then ended with:
I know how to feed a man. I raised James strong, and look at the state youve left him in in six months. Ill send him some proper meatballs tomorrow. Homemade, the real kind.
The next day, she rang about breakfast. I told her: an omelette from three egg whites and wholegrain toast.
Three whites? Where are the yolks then? she exclaimed. The yolks are where the goodness is! Are you skimping on eggs?
No, just less cholesterol. GP said to cut down.
Cholesterol my foot! Doctors make things up to sell pills. My dad had five eggs every morning, lived to eighty!
No point arguing.
Day three, she grilled me about the gym.
Yes, he goes. Four times a week.
FOUR?! she gasped. Thats overdoing it! Cardiacs happen from that, you know! His hearts not made of stone!
His trainers careful. Everythings monitored.
Those muscly types only want your money. At his age, he should be careful, not lifting weights. Youll run him into the ground!
I gritted my teeth. James just strolled in from the gym, grinning and brimming with energy. Bloodwork spot on. His pressure was finally normal. But to his mum, he looked ready for palliative care.
On the fourth day, she rang at eight, just as we were heading out the door.
Emily, Ive been thinking. Maybe James has worms? That makes people lose weight.
I nearly dropped my phone.
Mrs Hawkins, hes fine!
Have you checked? Got him tested?
No, because hes not ill!
You ought to check. And his thyroid too. Could be the stomachan ulcer, maybe? People waste away with ulcers.
I handed the phone to James. He tried to assure her all was well, the weight loss was planned and healthy. She listened, then said:
You dont see whats happening. Ill come by tonight.
She arrived, arms loaded with pilau and pasties. Once again, James felt cornered to eat just a bit to keep the peace. I watched him, guilty, stuck between his diet and his mums expectations.
After she left he muttered,
Sorry, Em. Shes just old, doesnt get it.
If you dont set some boundaries, this wont stop, I warned.
Shell calm down. Shell get used to it.
But she didnt. The calls kept rolling in. Once even twice a day. The questions only got more outlandish.
Is your hot water working? Maybe hes wasting away from cold baths?
Does James wake hungry at night? Are you starving him before bed?
These protein shakes, theyre chemicals! Hes not drinking those, is he?
She phoned friends, relatives, told everyone her son was frail and her daughter-in-law was starving him. Once his aunt actually called James at work, offering help.
Help? What do you mean? he asked.
Well your mum says youre not well. Need a doctor, maybe some money for health?
James was furious. That night, he called his mum and begged her not to tell people he was ill because he wasnt. She cried, said he was breaking her heart and that his love for his wife was sending her to an early grave.
He gave in, apologising, promising to visit more.
***
A week later, we visited her. James put on his old check shirtit now hung off him like a flag. Mrs Hawkins had outdone herself: roast chicken, chips, potato salad, pie, Victoria sponge.
Sit down, sit down! James love, help yourself. You need fattening up.
I looked at the table and knew it was a snareeat and break his diet, or refuse and offend her. James picked at some chicken and plain salad, passed on the chips and cake. Mrs Hawkins said nothing, lips tightly pressed.
Youre not even going to try the Victoria sponge? she whispered, trembling. I was up at six baking it.
Mum, Im sorry, I cant. Im eating healthier now.
Healthy? Its starvation! Look at yourselfyoure just bones and skin! She turned to me. This is your fault! Youre rail-thin and making him match you!
I choked on my tea.
Mrs Hawkins, nobodys forcing him. He wanted this.
He wanted it? Men make no such decisions! You dictate whats on his plate! I see those containers you packjust rabbit food!
Theres meat, grain, vegits balanced
Dont you contradict me! I dont tell you how to do your job, dont tell me how to feed my son! For thirty-two years I fed him, and now look! Turned him into an invalid!
James got up.
Mum, enough. Its not Emilys fault.
Of course, defend your wife, upset your mother. I raised you myself after your father died, gave you everything, and this is how you repay me
The words hung heavy. We left in silence. Jamess jaw clenched as he gripped the wheel. I stared out the window as my frustration boiled.
That evening she rang me.
Emily, sorry for what I said, she offered, more softly. Im just worried. You get it, right? Im his mum. It hurts to see him like this. He used to be so handsome, and now
Hes still handsome, I said, steady.
To you maybe, she sighed. But everyone says hes wasted away. They hardly recognise him. Dont you see? It looks like youre skint, like you cant even feed yourselves.
Were absolutely fine.
Then why isnt he eating properly?
I was tired. Tired of explanations, justifying myself, tired of being painted as a bad wife who cant manage.
***
The rift, the food inspections, the phone checksthey all escalated. Shed ring to ask what he was eating, how many meals, if he felt dizzy or weak. Checked my every move.
One afternoon at work, my colleague brought me the phone, eyebrow raised.
Emily, its Mrs Hawkins. James isnt answering. Is he alright?
My heart dropped.
No idea, were both working. Ill try him.
I rang my husband. He answered instantly.
Hey, love. Everything okay?
Your mums convinced youve fainted from lack of food.
Oh, bugger. Left my phone on silent, was in a meeting.
I called back, reassured her.
Thank heavens. You know, people faint from hunger, Emily!
Hes not starving, Mrs Hawkins!
You say that, she huffed. Saw a programme last nightdoctor said rapid weight loss is deadly. Skin sags, organs drop. Has he seen the doc since losing weight?
He has. Hes grand.
What specialist?
Just the GP.
What about a stomach doctor? Heart? Thyroid?
Why? Theres nothing wrong!
Well, maybe not yet, she muttered. But just wait. My friend tried losing weight, ended up with an ulcer.
I hung up, head buried in my hands, colleagues giving me sympathetic glances.
Mother-in-law? one guessed.
I nodded.
I had one just like it, she confided. Used to check if the floor was hoovered, shirts ironed. One day I told the husband: her or me. He picked meshe didnt speak for six months, but got over it.
I couldnt give an ultimatum. Mrs Hawkins was alone. Her husband passed ten years back. She had mates, but not close family. James was her everything. I understoodshe was afraid of losing him, afraid he was changing, slipping away from her. But I couldnt let her rule our lives.
That evening, I told James:
We need to talk.
His face tensed.
About what?
Your mum. I cant do this anymore. She rings me every day, controls every bite you eat, blames me for everything. I cant breathe.
Shes just worried.
I know! But her worry shouldnt dictate our lives. Cant you see? She treats me like your dodgy babysitter. As if Im unfit.
She doesnt mean it like that
Then whats with the endless recipes, the casseroles, the check-ins at work?
He had no answer.
Ask her to ring you if she wants an update. Not me.
Alright. Ill talk to her.
He did. The next day, he phoned his mum and asked her to stop hassling me at work. There was two days of silence. Then the calls resumedjust to James now. He grew short-tempered, snappy. One evening, slamming the phone down, he swore.
Thats it, I cant anymore!
What is it?
Shes on the phone to me all hours now! Morning, lunch, nightAre you dizzy? Hungry? Ill? Does she think Im dying?!
I hugged him.
We need to talk seriously. All of us. Make it clear youre fine, youve made your choice, she has to respect it.
She wont get it, he said, resigned.
We can but try.
***
Saturday, we agreed to meet at hers. Shed cooked, of course, but this time James stayed standing.
Mum, we need a chat, he started.
She froze, pasty plate in hand.
About what?
The calls. The comments to Emily. You not accepting the way I live now.
Mrs Hawkins set down the plate, hands trembling.
I just worry. Im his mum. Thats my job.
Worry, yes. But not control every meal. Im thirty-two. Ive got my own family. I make my own choices.
Is that you or her deciding? she nodded at me.
Mum!
No, really! You used to love my pies! Now you turn your nose up! Shes put notions in your head with these diets!
Nobody talked me into anything. I wanted to lose weight. My doctor warned me. I changed, and honestly, I feel better than ever. Fit as a fiddle. You have to see that.
I see youve lost so much weight! Her voice trembled. Youve changed.
No, Mum. This is me, as I should be. I was heavy, could barely walk up stairs. Thats not alright at my age.
You werent heavy. You were normal. Men should be solid.
I was overweight. I fixed it.
She suddenly broke down, wiping tears and sitting heavily.
Im frightened, she sobbed. If something happened to you Youre all I have.
James crouched to her side.
Im healthier than before, Mum. The old way led to pills by fortymaybe worse. Heart attacks, strokes. I dodged those.
What if youve lost too much? What if this isnt good either?
My weights spot on for my height. Doctor agrees.
She looked down at her hands.
Why the gym? Why this health food? People didnt need it before.
People used to move more, I offered gently. Now we sit all day. Foods full of sugar, additives. This is what it takes to keep healthy.
She stared at me, pain etched into her eyes.
Youre taking my son from me, she said.
I was stunned.
How am I taking him? Hes your son. Im not taking your place.
He used to come round, eat my food, chat. Now he refuses everything, like Im a stranger.
Mrs Hawkins, its not about the food. James loves you. But he cant eat things that dont suit him, just to prove it.
Ive spent my whole life feeding him, she whispered. Thats what I know. And now its not needed.
It hit me then: she wasnt mean, she was lost. Food was her love language, her only way to care. Now, shed lost that tool.
Youre still needed, I told her. James wants to spend time with you, just without the pressure or the policing.
She processed this, habits warring with understanding.
I never meant to hurt you, she finally admitted. I just didnt know what else to do.
Just cook the new way, if you want to, or come make it with us, James said. But stop questioning Emily about whether shes feeding me properly. Its not fair.
Mrs Hawkins nodded reluctantly.
Ill try, she promised.
We left feeling hopeful. In the car, James squeezed my hand.
Thanks for not blowing up, he said. I know how hard it is.
Im exhausted, I confessed. But I realise its hardest for her. Shes afraid shes not needed anymore.
She always will be.
Youre the one who needs to show her, not me.
***
A week went by, with no phone calls. I actually started to hope. Then, half-five one evening, my mobile rang.
Emily, its Diane Hawkins.
I froze.
Evening.
I Was wondering if you and James could come round Sunday. I thought I might try baked fish with veg. Saw a recipe onlineno oil, just herbs. Thought Id try being healthy.
I could barely breathe.
Well be there, Mrs Hawkins. Of course.
And Emily sorry. For everything. I really thought I was losing him.
Youre not losing him, Mrs Hawkins.
I know. I do now.
She rang off, and I stood there, brimming with relief. James came in, saw my face.
Mum?
Shes asked us to tea. Wants to cook baked salmon.
He grinned.
Shes making an effort.
She really is.
But on Saturday evening, she called again, anxious.
Emily, sorryjust checking. Can James eat carrots? Beetroot? The recipe says theyre high in sugar.
I sighed.
Theyre fine, Mrs Hawkins, in sensible amounts.
How much is sensible? A hundred grams? Two hundred?
One hundreds about right.
And which fish is better, salmon or cod? I know salmons a bit fatty
Salmons greatthose fats are good ones.
Oh right, hadnt thought. Thanks. And, er, how do you cook buckwheat? Straight in water, or a touch of butter?
I realised this would take time. The control may never fully go, but she was at least trying to understand. That was something.
Water, and just a little butter if you like. Not much.
Got it. Thanks, Emily. You dont mind the calls?
Not at all.
I just want it to go well for you both.
It will, Mrs Hawkins.
She rang off.
James, overhearing, chuckled.
Is she going to ring about every recipe now?
Probably.
Its better than being told off.
Much better, I smiled.
***
Sunday, we visited. Her table was modest this time; baked salmon with lemon and herbs, veg grilled to perfection, a dish of buckwheat on the side, a fresh saladno mayonnaise. And a tiny bit of pie, but only token.
I tried my best, she said anxiously as we sat. Tell me if its not right.
James tried a forkful and closed his eyes in delight.
Mum, this is gorgeous.
She beamed.
Really? I worried Id overcook it. The recipe said twenty minutes but I gave it twenty-five
Its perfect, I agreed. Well done, Mrs Hawkins.
She smiled shyly, straightening her hair.
I also want to learn to make those protein shakes you have. Would you show me?
Of course.
We chatted about her garden, the neighbours, the latest BBC drama. She didnt tally up bites or offer seconds or nudge us for more. She just talked. Just listened.
When we left, she hugged me tight.
Thank you, she whispered. For not giving up on me. For helping me understand.
Itll be alright, I promised.
In the car, James squeezed my hand.
A new chapter?
I hope so.
But three days later, the phone rang again at six. My stomach clenched at her name.
Emily, its Mrs Hawkins. Have you fed James today?
I paused, keeping calm.
Yes, Mrs Hawkins.
What with?
And then I just knew: this might never end. Shed always want to check in. Maybe not every day. Maybe with different questions. But always, because its her waya way to stay part of her sons life, to know shes still needed.
Mrs Hawkins, I said softly but firmly, if you want to know what James is eating, ask him. Hes a grown man. He can tell you himself.
But
No, please listen. I cant keep reporting every meal. Its not healthy. If youre worried, come round and see us, check for yourself. But the daily grillings have to stop.
She went quiet. I just heard her breathing.
Youre right, she said at last. Sorry. Habit, I suppose.
Its a habit that can change.
It can, she agreed. Ill try.
She hung up.
James poked his head in.
Everything okay?
I hope so. I told her 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 nurse.
Sorry I didnt protect you sooner.
Do it now.
I will.
A week passed, no calls. Another week. I started to hope again; maybe the boundaries were holding.
Then Friday night, the doorbell rang. Mrs Hawkins, holding a little bag.
Evening, Emily. Hope Im not intruding.
No, come in.
She stepped inside, took off her shoes, reached into her carrier.
I made some veg stew for you, nearly oil-free. Thought you might like it.
James hugged her.
Thanks, Mum.
Dont mention it. Im learning, you know. Bear with me.
We ate her stew for tea. It was tasty. She sat with us, chatting, drinking tea.
Do you like it?
Very much, James said.
Im glad. Means my effort wasnt wasted.
She left after an hour. Didnt check the fridge, didnt question the menu. Just visited, sipped her tea, listened.
As the door closed, James wrapped his arms round me.
I think she really is changing.
I think so too.
Still, I knew the truce was delicate. Thered be setbacks, slip-ups, more anxious calls. Some habits cling on like nothing else. The struggle for space, for respect, for our own family life would keep going.
But now at least I know I can say no. I can set my line. I dont have to report in, justify myself, take the blame. I have my own marriage. And James is standing by me.
Right on six, Monday, the phone went.
I looked at the screen: Diane Hawkins.
I answered.
Hello.
Emily, its just me. Not checking up, dont worry. Just wonderedare you around at the weekend? Maybe youll pop by and help me make those quark pancakes you likethe flourless ones? Youll show me?
I exhaled.
Of course, Mrs Hawkins. Well come.
She said goodbye and hung up.
James looked at me, raising an eyebrow.
Progress?
Small, but yes. Progress.
He kissed the crown of my head.
Shes trying.
She is.
And somewhere deep inside, I hoped that one day, the calls might be just callsno checklists, no anxietyjust real chats between people who love each other and are learning to speak the same language, day by day.
But for now, standing beside my husband as dusk settled outside, our wholesome supper cooling on the table, I knew: the fight isnt over, but its not lost either. The line is clear. And were in this together.
