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.
Then Riya, his younger sister, stormed in. “What drama is this? Guests humiliated, our family name ruined!”
I faced her calmly. “Your mother insulted mine. Do you think that’s right?”
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She sneered. “Money has made you arrogant.”
I met her eyes. “If your mother was forced into a kitchen like mine, would you laugh too?”
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For once, she was speechless.
That night, while Nirmala called every relative sobbing about her “cruel” daughter-in-law, I sat beside my own mother in the kitchen. She quietly sorted vegetables, her shoulders shaking.
I whispered, “Mom, let’s go back to the village tomorrow. I can’t let you suffer here another day.”
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Her eyes welled. “Forever?”
I nodded. “Yes. It’s time.”
At dawn we packed a few bags. With Kabir in my arms, I left behind the house, the marriage, the silence.
On the journey home, I realized I couldn’t carry this burden unfinished. I returned to the city briefly, went to the bank, and cleared the last of the loan with money I had scraped together from years of extra tuitions. Then I transferred the property to my mother’s name.
She had given everything for me; now the house was truly hers:
