My mother had come to visit from the village, but my mother-in-law suddenly said: “Go to the kitchen and have your dinner”—she was stunned by what I did next.
“Mom! Why are you doing this? Where’s the maid?” I demanded.
She smiled weakly, whispering, “I came early. She said there were guests, so I should eat in the kitchen with the maid. I thought I’d help.”
My throat burned. This woman — who mortgaged herself to buy me this house — was being told she was unworthy to sit at our table.
I wiped her hands. “Sit down, Mom. Leave this to me.”
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I marched into the living room, heart pounding. The chandelier glowed, cups clinked, laughter rang — but all I felt was rage.
I looked straight at Mrs. Malhotra. “Auntie, you are our guest, but I must speak. My mother brought vegetables for her grandson. She was told to eat in the kitchen. Do you know why? Because someone decided she wasn’t decent enough to sit here.”
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The room froze. Mrs. Malhotra frowned at my mother-in-law. “Nirmala, is this true?”
My mother-in-law scoffed. “Nonsense! She came in suddenly, I only asked her to rest. Asha is exaggerating.”
I laughed coldly. “Rest? In front of a sink full of dishes? You’ve insulted her for years, but today you crossed the limit. This house is in my name, bought with my hard work and my mother’s loan. If you think you own it, wake up.”
