I’m a retired mother, 67 years old, and my pension is ₹43,000 per month—not much, but enough to live comfortably in my village in Uttar Pradesh. When my son invited me to Delhi to care for his six-month-old son because my daughter-in-law had returned to work after maternity leave, I couldn’t refuse.

I packed my bags, took a jar of mango pickle and a box of laddus from home, and took the overnight bus to the city. The first days were very taxing, but I kept telling myself: “My child is struggling—I’ll help as long as I can.” I didn’t ask for anything. I covered my expenses myself—from breakfast tea to joint supplements. I just wanted a little warmth in the house.

Then one afternoon, I saw my daughter-in-law’s phone on the table. The screen glowed with an incoming call. I was stunned when I saw how she had saved my number:

“Village Mother-in-Law.”
Not even “Mom.” Not even “Mother-in-Law.” Just four cold, heartbreaking words: “Village Mother-in-Law.”

May be an image of 2 people and child

I said nothing. I went into the small room, cleaned it, left the key where she could find it, didn’t wake anyone, and took the night bus back to my village.

A week later, I was picking vegetables in the courtyard when a neighbor hurried over with my phone.

“Aunty, your son is on the phone—crying a lot…”

My hands trembled as I picked up the phone.

May be an image of 2 people and child

“Mom… Neha has postpartum hemorrhage—she’s in the emergency ward. I don’t know what to do. The baby cried all night. Please… can you come?”

I froze as the farm breeze blew through my gray hair. There was a tightness in my throat—not from anger, but from love.

Love for my child. Love for my grandchildren. And love for the old woman I’ve become—a mother willing to give up her old age to support a family, yet still be called a stranger in her own son’s home.

I didn’t respond immediately.

But I knew I was going back.

Because more than grief, I am a mother.