After five years of working as a maid in a wealthy family, I was fed up with the squalid and impoverished rural life, so I decided to leave my ailing husband and become my boss’s second wife: I thought I’d become a millionaire in one step, but four months later, something drastic happened…
The day I picked up my bags and walked from my old, tiled house in the plains of Uttar Pradesh to a white, four-story villa in Gurgaon’s DLF Phase 2, everyone thought I’d changed my life. But few knew that behind that golden door lay a price I—a rural woman—could never have imagined. Four months later, I picked up my bags again, not a branded suitcase, but some old clothes stuffed into a sack. I walked down the old street with my head bowed, and saw the white canvas-covered porch of a funeral procession…

My name is Meera, 38 years old. I come from a poor district in Uttar Pradesh – winters are cold, summers are hot. My husband, Dinesh, is very good, but after a motorbike accident, he has been bedridden for two years. The burden of making ends meet rests on my shoulders. Both children were still young, studying intermittently. The house consisted of nothing but a rickety bamboo bed and a rotten tiled roof from my grandparents’ generation.
In 2018, I went to Delhi to work as a maid. First on an hourly basis, then I became a permanent resident for Mr. Rajiv Malhotra’s family – a wealthy family. Their villa was as large as a hotel, always sparkling, and smelled of sandalwood essential oil, a stark contrast to the musty smell I was accustomed to as a child. Mr. Malhotra’s wife took both children to Sydney to study at university and stayed there to care for them. Only he and I lived in the large house. I cleaned, cooked, made masala tea, and served rice—like a shadow.

Then one day, Mr. Malhotra started talking to me more often. He wasn’t as cold as he appeared—instead, he was gentle, thoughtful, and curious. Every time he praised my rajma and parathas, my heart warmed like a girl just falling in love. I knew I wasn’t young or beautiful anymore—but I was alone, and so was he.

The unexpected: He asked me to stay with him forever. He said we were like two strangers, each with their own lives. I was stunned, my heart pounding, both happy and scared. I said: “Your husband and children are still in the countryside…” He looked at me for a long time and asked: “Just think, do you want to live like this for the rest of your life?”

I had sleepless nights. Thinking about Dinesh—paralyzed, only able to moan in pain; thinking about the two children; thinking about the dilapidated house, the days of dripping rain and scorching sun. And I thought about myself—a 38-year-old woman, older than her actual age, withered like a banana tree cut off at the roots.

I chose. I handed the divorce papers to Dinesh, and asked my brother-in-law to handle them because he couldn’t sign them. I knew I was being heartless, but I didn’t want to die in the mud of old age. I wanted to stay in that house, as the “second wife,” as long as my life continued to be good.

Mr. Malhotra held a small puja at home, didn’t register the marriage, and simply called me “life partner.” I had my own room, I could wear saris, wear lipstick, go to the spa, and take advanced cooking classes in Gurgaon. From a maid, I became “Mr. Meera to Mr. Malhotra.” Relatives in the countryside were skeptical: some called me a traitor, others praised my “visionary.” I said to myself: “I deserve this. I’ve endured a lot.”

But that happiness lasted only four months.

One hot afternoon, I was sitting in the study room—a place I hadn’t dared to go in 30 years—when he came home, his face cold. He didn’t ask me what I ate, nor did he compliment me like he usually did. I was restless, but didn’t dare ask.

That night, his phone rang—his wife was calling from Sydney. After the call, he said…

“Meera… our relationship should end.”

I was stunned. “Why stay? You left your entire family and came here to live with me…”

He turned away and left. A few days later, I learned that his wife and two children would be returning home—his daughter had been in an accident and needed long-term treatment in India. And to top it all off, his wife announced that she was coming back to live: “Family is the most important thing.”

From “the second wife,” I became a stranger. I had no papers, no title to the land, no rights to the house. He handed me an envelope: “Let me go back to my town and open a grocery store to make ends meet.” I looked at the pile of money, tears welling up: “Is that all?”

That night, I packed my belongings—not a suitcase, but a sack of clothes—and quietly took the bus back to my town. No one saw me off, no one asked.

When I reached the village entrance, people gathered in front of my house. A white canopy had been spread in the courtyard, and a heartbreaking cry echoed.

The bag fell from my hand.

Dinesh… was gone.

I stood silently at the entrance of the street. The white color of the funeral procession was clearly visible in the yellow lights. The kirtan, chanting “Rama naam satya hai,” echoed. The villagers looked at me: some whispered, some shook their heads, some turned away.

I couldn’t cry. My throat was choked, my legs were stiff.

A neighbor—Shanti Aunty—came over. Her eyes weren’t as friendly as before:

“He’s back. It’s too late, Meera.”

I just wanted to ask: “When did he… die?”

She sighed:
“Three days ago. The weather had changed, and he had become very weak. He hadn’t eaten anything since the day he received the divorce papers. I went to console him, saying, ‘Your wife is back.’ He shook his head: ‘She’s gone… gone forever.’

I went into the courtyard. The scent of incense, agarbatti, and wet soil wafted. A garland of marigold flowers hung over Dinesh’s photo; his face was pale but gentle. My chest ached as if it were being squeezed. The man I once considered an obstacle in my life, his name now made me tremble and unable to stand.

Both children – Ravi and Asha – were sitting on the mat, their eyes swollen. When Asha saw me, she jumped up and then stopped. She didn’t hug me like before, but simply said coldly:

“Mom, you’re back. Dad is gone.”

I sank to my knees and wept.
It was a cry of regret—the cry of a woman who thought she had changed her life, but risked everything only to receive nothing in return.

After the funeral, I lived quietly in my old house. The villagers spoke little to my face; behind my back, there was much gossip. Some said I “didn’t know how to maintain my happiness,” while others said even more harsh things: “Becoming the second wife of a wealthy family, returning to find my husband dead, my children cold—it was absolutely worth it!”

They weren’t wrong. I had left my seriously ill husband and two children and started a “new life.” But that life was just a temporary aura—like moonlight at the bottom of the water: beautiful, shimmering, but never touching.

I sold the gold-plated necklace Mr. Malhotra had given me on the day we parted, emptied the envelope, and opened a small grocery store next to the house. It wasn’t large, but it was enough for the three of us to survive.

Asha, who was only 14, fell silent. Her eyes looked at me coldly, as if a bruise hadn’t yet healed. I had once bought her a new uniform. She murmured: “Thank you.” Then she said softly: “Next time, don’t go back, Mom.”

I was stunned. These words pierced my heart like needles. I hugged my son, but he didn’t hug me. That rift couldn’t be healed overnight. I’ll wait—until he forgives me.

Ravi—the eldest son—was quieter. He dropped out of school and started working as a construction worker with his uncle. I pleaded with him to go back to school. He smiled softly:
“I’m grown up now. My father is no more, my family is poor. I work to ease my mother’s pain.”
I covered my face and cried. He turned away and walked away.

One day, I heard that an investigation was underway into Mr. Malhotra’s land. The villa was sealed, and the property was confiscated. I was neither happy nor sad. I just thought: I wish I had woken up earlier.

I started going to the Hanuman temple on the first of every month. Not to pray for wealth, but to find peace. I asked to teach cooking classes at the commune: the dishes I learned in the city became my livelihood—and a way to atone for my mistakes.

Sometimes, looking toward the shrine—where Dinesh’s photo is solemnly placed—I whisper:
“Brother… I was wrong. If there’s a next life, don’t let me be so indebted to you.”

On his first death anniversary, the entire village came. Everyone was surprised to see me handling everything from vegetarian food to incense sticks. Some people even looked at me differently. A neighbor said:
“Meera has been through a lot too… but she knows how to bounce back.”

I don’t expect instant forgiveness. I just want to be a good mother, a good woman – even if it’s too late.

A woman who once sacrificed everything to climb up, then lost everything to fall back down. But when she does, there’s a way for her to start again – no matter how small, no matter how rough.