In the early days, everything was peaceful. I learned to change diapers, prepare milk, bathe him, and make nutritious dal khichdi, which he loved. The feeling of being a father made me happier than ever.

But then work took hold of me. I was an architect on a major project in Mumbai, and my busy schedule required constant overtime. I was forced to ask my mother, Lata, to take care of my wife and child.

A Devoted Mother and Old “Rules”

My mother is a typical traditional woman from Gujarat: resourceful, loving her children and grandchildren, but extremely conservative.

As soon as I moved into my apartment, she began “renovating” everything:

She opened the curtains wide “to allow ventilation and ward off postpartum evil spirits,”

Turned off the air conditioner because “the cold air would cause postpartum problems for my daughter-in-law,”

Drinked herbal basil tea instead of filtered water,

And even made her wear rubber slippers “to avoid slipping and catching a cold on the floor.”

I assumed my mother did all this out of concern. But for Priya – a pediatric nurse at a government hospital – all this was an intrusion into her personal space and professional knowledge.

Conflict Hidden in a Small House

Over the following days, the conflict gradually escalated.

My mother forced Priya to lie on coals, not bathe for ten days, not turn on the fan, and tightly wrap her grandson in a thick blanket, even though it was mid-April and the weather was extremely hot.

Priya tried to explain it medically: that high temperatures make children prone to heat rash, that lying on coals can cause carbon monoxide poisoning. But my mother simply uttered a familiar refrain:

“Everyone did that in my time, no one died!”

With the mentality of a man with little experience raising children, I could only stand in the middle. I thought the two women I loved most would find a way to reconcile. But I was wrong.

That fateful day – when I returned because I had forgotten my phone

That morning, I was in a hurry to get to work, and halfway through, I suddenly remembered I’d left my phone at home. I turned the car around.

As I put the key in the lock, I heard a rattling sound from inside the house, then my mother’s voice rang out—so harsh and angry I couldn’t recognize it:

“I told you, didn’t you hear? If you keep lying on the air conditioner like this after giving birth, you’ll die the day after! You’re so good, take care of yourself, don’t tell me anymore!”

Priya’s voice, trembling and choked, echoed:

“I tried to bear it, but you didn’t listen. I’m sad, you know?”

Then my mother yelled:

“How dare you say that to me? I quit my job, left my friends, and came here to take care of your child, and how dare you be so rude!”

There was a dry “pop.”

I kicked the door open.

Priya was sitting on the floor, holding her cheek, her hair disheveled. There was a bright red mark on her cheek.

My mother stood in front, her hands shaking, her face pale as if she had just woken from a nightmare.

The baby in the cradle started crying.

An eerie silence fell over the house.

The Silence After the Storm

That night, I took my wife and child to my best friend’s apartment in Thane. I told my mother I needed time to calm down.

For the next three days, I turned off my phone, put my work aside, and cared for my wife and children alone—learning to listen and love again.

Priya began to speak less and became thinner, but the darkness in her eyes gradually faded.

On the third day, I received a text message from my mother:

“I’m sorry. I was wrong. If you’ll let me know, I’d like to come and meet Priya and talk to her.”

That afternoon, I picked up my mother in the car.

She brought a packet of hot khichdi, warm turmeric milk, and a bouquet of white jasmine flowers.

Without a scolding, without a tear, my mother sat down in front of Priya, her voice heavy:

“I’m sorry, my child. I don’t understand what you’ve gone through. I just wanted to help, but I hurt you. If you’ll let me, I want to learn again – how to be a mother and a grandmother.”

Priya remained silent for a long time, tears streaming down her cheeks. She nodded gently.

Starting Again – With Love and Understanding

From that day on, everything changed.

My mother no longer gave “orders,” but listened.

Priya no longer shut herself off, but gently shared everything.

I learned to stand in the middle, not to decide who was right and who was wrong, but to maintain peace with respect.

One night, as I watched the two women put their baby, Aarav, to sleep, I realized:
Family isn’t a place where only perfect people live, but it’s a place where people learn to forgive, love, and learn from each other’s mistakes and move on.