I was certain she would never truly leave me.
Her family resided five hundred kilometers away, and in Davao, she had no one except me. I convinced myself that she wouldn’t dare to leave—especially without access to our shared financial resources.
So, that night, I slipped into slumber, filled with conviction, resting beside my mother on a high pillow.
My mother, Sharda Devi, prided herself as the ultimate sacrifice for our family, anticipating that my wife would be submissive, compliant, and appreciative.
And I, regarding myself as the dutiful son, concurred with her expectations.
“A wife should simply tolerate certain things for the sake of the family,” I frequently reminded myself. “What’s the harm in that?”
The Spark of Conflict
Anita, my wife, hailed from a different city. We encountered one another during our college years in Davao.
When we first broached the topic of marriage, my mother expressed her outrage.
“Her family is too distant,” she remarked, “It’ll be a hassle visiting them regularly.”
Anita shed tears that day yet remained resolute.
“Don’t worry,” she reassured me. “I promise to be a good daughter-in-law and will take care of your family, even if it means only seeing mine once a year.”
After many pleas, my mother finally relented, yet she always remembered that Anita wasn’t from our locality. Every time I intended to visit her family with her and our child, my mother devised excuses to prevent us.
The Arrival of Our Baby
Following the birth of our first child, everything shifted.
Suddenly, insignificant decisions morphed into conflicts.
I continuously sided with my mother, insisting, “She only wants what’s best for her grandchild,” and questioning, “Why can’t Anita heed her advice?”
However, Anita was not one to remain silent. They clashed over everything—from the type of milk to give the baby to how frequently he should sleep.
My mother would yell, bang pots and pans, and subsequently feign illness for days.
Things escalated during one family visit when our child fell ill with a high fever. My mother pointed her finger at Anita.
“You cannot even care for my grandson properly? How could you allow this to occur?”
In that moment, I sided with my mother. Anita looked at me, her eyes brimming with sorrow.
Unraveling Everything
That evening, Anita remained awake, tending to our unwell child.
Exhausted, I retreated upstairs to sleep beside my parents.
By morning, some relatives had arrived. My mother handed Anita a thousand rupees.
“Go to the market,” she directed. “Purchase food and prepare it for our guests.”
Upon observing the exhaustion on Anita’s face, I opened my mouth to interject, but my mother cut me off.
“If you go, they will mock you! She is the daughter-in-law; cooking is her responsibility!”
Anita, still resting in bed, croaked:
“I was up all night caring for your grandson. These guests are yours, not mine. I’m your daughter-in-law, not your servant.”
My mother’s eyes widened. An eerie silence blanketed the room.
I felt the weight of everyone’s gaze, embarrassment flooding my cheeks.
Enraged, I seized Anita’s arm and dragged her to the storeroom.
“This time, I must be firm,” I stated coldly. “You need to learn to show respect to your elders.”
Inside the dark, empty room, there was no mattress, no blanket.
The Day After
The next morning, when I opened the storeroom door, Anita had vanished.
Panic surged through me. I raced to inform my mother. Her face blanched as she summoned everyone to search for her.
A neighbor spoke up:
“I saw her last night. She was crying and dragging her suitcase down the street. I gave her some money for a taxi. She mentioned she was returning home—she could no longer withstand the way you and your mother treated her. She plans to file for divorce.”
The phone slipped from my grasp.
When Anita finally picked up my call, her voice was steady and icy.
“I’m at my parents’ residence. In a few days, I will file for divorce. Our child will remain with me, of course. And regarding the property—half of it is mine.”
My heart raced. I relayed this to my mother, hoping she would assist in mending things. She simply scoffed.
“She’s just pretending. She wouldn’t dare.”
But deep inside, I understood—this time, Anita was not bluffing.
Receiving the Divorce Petition
Three days later, a brown envelope arrived. Within it were the official divorce documents, marked with the court’s seal.
Her reason was explicitly stated:
“I experienced mental cruelty from my husband and his family. They treated me like a servant, devoid of humanity.”
My hands shook. I still clung to the hope she would change her mind.
Yet, she had already moved forward.
Upon hearing the news, my mother burst with fury.
“How could she! Divorce brings shame to both sides! Forget about her—she will regret this and return to us!”
But I was not angry anymore; I was filled with dread.
If we were to divorce, I would lose my child. Legally, children under three years old had to remain with their mother.
Burden of Shame
News quickly spread among our extended family.
Some reprimanded me.
“Raj, have you lost your mind? She has just given birth, and you confined her to a storeroom? That’s inhumane.”
Others murmured behind my back.
“The Kapoor family is notorious for mistreating their daughters-in-law. Who will wish to marry into that family now?”
Every statement struck deeper than the last. I found myself unable to defend my actions; I recognized they were correct.
A Father’s Heartache
That night, I covertly called Anita.
She answered, and I saw our son sleeping soundly in her embrace. My heart clenched.
“Anita,” I whispered, “please… allow me to see him. I miss him dearly.”
She glanced at me, her expression frozen.
“Now you acknowledge your son? What about me—the woman you locked away as if I were nothing? Raj, it’s too late. I am not returning.”
Her words devastated me. Tears blurred my vision, but she hung up before I could respond.
Realization in Regret
In the subsequent days, I traversed the house like a specter. I lost all sense of purpose—unable to work or eat.
Each night, I dreamt of Anita leaving with our child as I chased after them, calling her name.
It was only then that the harsh reality dawned on me:
I had failed her. I had betrayed the woman who sacrificed everything for me, who promised to care for my family, who desired nothing but respect in return.
Now, my silence cost me both her affection and my child’s presence.
The Pivotal Choice
One morning, my aunt gently rested her hand on my shoulder.
“Raj,” she said softly, “when a woman makes the choice to divorce, it’s a difficult position to reverse. You have two paths—either accept it or humble yourself to seek forgiveness. But remember, this matter extends beyond just the two of you; it involves the honor of the family.”
I nodded in silence. The weight of pressure from my mother, my relatives, and society felt like chains binding my neck.
Yet, none of that compared to the void within me—the silence where my son’s laughter once filled the air.
That night, I stood isolated in the courtyard, gazing at the stars. My heart felt heavy; my thoughts, restless.
I realized I was at a crossroads.
Either I would lose everything…
Or, for the first time in my existence, I would need to confront my mother head-on—and fight for the family I had shattered on my own accord.