My son’s holey socks

My son’s torn socks

When my son Adrián and his wife, Lucía, came to our house for dinner, as always, I set the table as if for a party: Madrid stew, croquettes, mashed potatoes, and salad—everything he likes best. But the moment Adrián took off his shoes in the hall, I nearly fainted from shock: his socks had huge holes through which his toes were shamelessly sticking out! I froze, as if struck by lightning. Does my son, whom I raised, clothed, and taught to take care of his appearance, walk around looking like a beggar? And, excuse me, where were his wife’s eyes? This is the last straw. I can’t get that image out of my head, and I need to vent, or I’ll explode with indignation!

I, Carmen López, have worked my butt off so Adrián wouldn’t want for anything. I sewed his shirts and bought him the best shoes, even though I had to do the heavy lifting. Now he’s an engineer, married to Lucía, a girl I thought was charming and hardworking. They live in their own apartment, they both work, and everything seems to be going well. I don’t interfere in their lives, but from time to time I invite them over for dinner to see them and pamper them with home-cooked food. And then, surprise! I come across that spectacle of socks. They’re not just holes; they’re a cry for help, a sign that something’s not right in their house.

It all started when they came home. As always, I was running around, setting plates and heating croquettes. Adrian took off his shoes, and when I looked at his feet, I thought I was imagining it. My son, always so neat, couldn’t be wearing such tattered clothes. But no: his socks looked like they’d survived a nuclear war, with holes everywhere and the tips of his toes sticking out as if they were trying to escape. I froze, and I even dropped a fork. Lucía, noticing my gaze, giggled: “Oh, Carmen, it’s his doing. I’ve told him a thousand times to buy new ones.” His doing? And you, darling, what are you doing with this?”

During dinner, I couldn’t concentrate. I looked at Adrián, who was devouring the stew with gusto, and thought: How did we get to this? I didn’t raise him to be a beggar. And Lucía, so calm, talking about her job as if it were nothing. In the end, I couldn’t hold it in any longer: “Adrián, son, what’s up with your socks? How embarrassing!” He shrugged: “Mom, it’s not that big a deal, they’re old, I haven’t had time to throw them away.” Haven’t you had time? And Lucía added: “Carmen, he dresses himself, I don’t control his wardrobe.” Don’t you control him? Who’s going to look after your husband if not you?”

I tried to contain myself, but inside I was boiling. When I finished, when Lucía went into the living room, I asked Adrián in a low voice: “Son, don’t you have any money for socks? Or is there no one to do the laundry?” He just waved his hand: “Mom, don’t make a big deal, everything’s fine. I just didn’t notice.” Didn’t you notice? You can see those holes from the moon! I wanted to talk to Lucía, but I was afraid she’d laugh again. So I took some new socks out of the closet that I had bought her for her birthday and gave them to her: “Here, put them on, you’re so embarrassing to look at.” He smiled at me and thanked me, but I could tell he didn’t care.

When they left, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking: How is this possible? Yes, Lucía works, she comes home tired, but is that an excuse? At her age, I worked, ran the house, took care of my husband and son. Can’t she throw three pairs of socks in the wash or buy new ones? They sell them in any store, and at a good price! Or is it fashionable now to look ragged? I remembered that Lucía always looks impeccable, with polished nails, while my son wears socks that keep falling apart. And they’re not just socks, they’re a symbol. A symbol that, apparently, she doesn’t give a damn about her husband.

The next day I called my friend Pilar to vent. She listened and said, “Carmen, it’s none of your business. They’re adults, they’ll manage on their own.” Adults? So who’s making sure Adrián doesn’t look like a bum? Pilar added, “Maybe Lucía doesn’t think it’s her job. Women today are different.” Different? I’m not opposed to them working or having a career, but has basic attention to your husband also gone out of style? I’m not asking him to make stew every day, but he can mend a pair of socks!

I decided to talk to Lucía. I called her and invited her to coffee, without Adrián around. I said, “Lucía, I’m sorry to butt in, but how can you allow Adrián to wear those socks? He’s your husband.” She looked surprised: “Carmen, he’s a little older and he chooses his own clothes. I’ve told him a thousand times to buy new ones.” A little older? And can’t you see he’s a mess? I hinted that a wife should take care of such things, but she just smiled: “There’s equality here; I don’t control his wardrobe.” Equality? That he’s all dressed up and you’re all dressed to the nines?

Now I don’t know what to do. Part of me wants to buy Adrian a box of socks and wash them myself so he doesn’t look like a fool. But another part understands that it’s not my place. They’ll have to figure it out. I suggested to Adrian: “Son, if you’re short on money, tell me and I’ll help you.” He laughed: “Mom, it’s not that, the socks were old, I’ll throw them away.” Will you throw them away? And what’s stopping you from doing it now? I don’t know how to reason with Lucía. Maybe she really thinks it’s not her responsibility. But it hurts me to see my son like this. It’s as if I’ve failed to teach him how to take care of himself.

For now, I’m biting my tongue. I keep inviting them to dinner and leaving new socks for Adrián, but inside I’m fuming. They’re not just holes in the fabric; they’re a sign that something’s wrong in his family. And I don’t know how to fix it without damaging our relationship. But one thing is clear: my son deserves more than to be left with his fingers in the air. And Lucía should reflect on what it means to be a wife. Or should I teach her that too?