AnnaMaria
My husband and I have been married for five years. Like any marriage, we’ve had our share of ups and downs, but I always believed I was blessed with a gentle, considerate mother-in-law. Mrs. Sarla never interfered, never raised her voice, and always offered advice with a smile.
But I had been tired lately—emotionally and physically drained from work. Hitesh, my husband, barely had time for me these days, always “busy” with something. Seeing my exhaustion, my mother-in-law called me into the living room one afternoon and placed a thick envelope on the table.
“Here,” she said warmly. “Two million rupees. Go on a vacation. Europe, anywhere you want. Stay a few weeks. Relax. Clear your head.”
I stared at her, stunned. Two million? From her? She had never given me anything close to that amount before. And a trip—now, of all times?
At first, I was touched. But in the corners of my mind, a doubt flickered.
Why was she so eager to send me away?
Still, I packed my bags. My flight was from Terminal 3 at IGI Airport. Hitesh didn’t protest; he simply muttered, “Go… Mom will handle things here,” in a tone that confused me even further.
On the day of my departure, my mother-in-law even accompanied me personally. She hugged me as if she were sending me off for months. But when she turned away, something inside me hardened.
I decided not to leave.
Not yet.
I took a taxi back toward DLF Phase 3 and got down a few lanes before reaching home. My hands were trembling as I walked the rest of the way. At the end of the alley, I froze.
The front door was wide open. Laughter echoed from inside—the carefree, bubbling laughter of strangers in a place that was supposed to be my home.
I crept closer and looked in.
What I saw shattered something deep inside me.
Hitesh was on the sofa with a young woman—a bright outfit, hair tied neatly, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder as if she had always belonged there. And there was my mother-in-law, serving snacks with a wide, approving smile.
“The daughter-in-law is gone,” she said cheerfully. “Now you can relax. Riya is a good girl. I like her a lot.”
My ears buzzed, my vision blurred.
The “vacation” was never for my sake.
The two million rupees were not kindness.
It was a payout—money to ensure I left quietly while they replaced me.
I didn’t enter the house. I didn’t confront them. I walked away—my legs numb, my heart ice cold.
That night, I checked into a small hotel in Karol Bagh and lay awake until sunrise. The pain was sharp, but beneath it, a fire began to grow.
If I stayed silent, I would lose everything—dignity, years, self-respect.
The next morning, I went to a lawyer in Saket. I asked about property division, legal rights, procedures. Then I contacted a trusted acquaintance and requested evidence—photos, recordings, whatever was needed.
Two weeks passed. They still thought I was in Europe, posting selfies somewhere on cobblestone streets.
Then, one afternoon, I returned home—this time not alone, but with my lawyer and a file of documented proof.
The moment they saw me, their faces drained of color.
Hitesh stuttered,
my mother-in-law froze,
and Riya looked away, suddenly silent.
I placed the envelope with the two million rupees on the table.
“Thank you,” I said calmly. “I’ll use this to start a new life—one that’s freer, lighter, and far away from this house.”
Then I placed the divorce papers beside it.
“I have no connection to this family anymore.”
I walked out without looking back.
And for the first time in a long time, the world felt wide and open—waiting for me to live it on my own terms.
