During labor, I asked my mother-in-law to come and take care of me, but she insisted on 3 crore rupees per month. With a sad face, I gave her only 30,000 rupees per month. When my daughter turned one, I sent her to school. Suddenly, when she returned to her hometown, I cleaned her room and was embarrassed to see what she had left behind…
Less than a week had passed since I gave birth. I was in pain, the baby was very naughty, and my husband, Rohan, was on a business trip abroad. I had no choice but to ask my mother-in-law, Sarla Ji, to come from Lucknow to Bengaluru to take care of the baby for a while. Before she arrived, she called and said clearly:

“I’m taking care of the baby, not staying there for free. It would cost you 7-8 thousand rupees to hire someone from outside. I charge 30,000 rupees per month, which is very low.”

Hearing this, my face turned bloody. I quietly hung up. The next day, I went to pick her up as usual, but quietly handed her an envelope containing exactly ₹3,000 as “gift money.”

She said nothing, just smiled slightly. The atmosphere at home remained as heavy as lead for the entire next month. She didn’t complain, yet she continued to hold the baby, wash diapers, apply mustard oil to the baby, and bathe him with boiled neem leaves. As for me, I was… irritated, so I became even more apathetic, counting the days until the quarantine period was over.

When my child turned one, I sent him to playschool early in the name of “discipline.” That very afternoon, he packed his things and left for his hometown without even staying a night.

I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking it was all over.

A few days later, taking advantage of the holiday, I cleaned the room where she lived. While turning the mattress and removing the mat, I suddenly noticed a thin envelope hidden on the edge of the bed. Opening it—my heart stopped. Inside were small bundles of money, each containing ₹3,000, along with a piece of paper with neat handwriting in purple ink:

First month: Baby had a fever at night, bought medicine, and drove to the Public Health Center (PHC).

Second month: Baby had diarrhea, ran out of diapers, bought a temporary imported diaper for ₹390.
Third month: Power went out, rented a rechargeable fan/paid a deposit for a small inverter for the baby’s bedroom.

Fourth month: Baby broke the glass in the wardrobe, replaced it to prevent injury.

May: Buy mosquito net and bite cream.

June: Buy ORS and digestive enzymes; Wash baby’s clothes separately with mild soap.

July: Get vaccinated, make up the difference.

August: The gas tank ran out in the middle of the night, immediately ordered new diapers to make porridge.

September: Rent a nebulizer for two days as baby was wheezing.

October: Replace the crib mattress as it had become moldy several times.

November: Buy celery and mustard oil to apply to baby’s tummy.

December: Put down a temporary deposit for the first week of playschool.

At the end of the list, a neat line:

“Total: ₹36,000—not a penny less.”

And below, a folded piece of paper, still neatly written in purple ink:

“My daughter-in-law doesn’t owe me anything.

I’m just afraid that when she grows up, she’ll learn to count every penny with someone who truly loves her.” I sat on the floor. She didn’t spend a single penny of every ₹3,000 envelope I gave her every month, she kept it safe and hidden, and she even quietly paid for her grandchildren herself.

A wave of shame swept through me: When the baby was sick, who was there for her all night? When the power went out, who was there to fan her? When the diapers ran out, who drove through the rain to buy them? Where was I on those nights?

I held the paper, the words still smelled of fresh ink. The salty taste of tears lingered in my throat.

That night, I called Sarla ji. The phone rang for a long time, then someone answered. Choked and trembling, I managed only one sentence:

“Mom… I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

On the other end of the phone, he sighed softly:

“No one owes anyone anything. I just hope you love your grandchildren—and yourself—more.”

The next day, I arrived at playschool early, hugging my son tightly. I asked Rohan to cut his business trip short, then wrote a new spending plan with my own hands: childcare, emergency medical expenses, monthly help for my grandmother—not to pay off the debt, but to repay the kindness.

At night, I put the envelope—containing ₹36,000 in full—back in the drawer to set aside for my son. On top, I pasted a small piece of paper, in purple ink:

“Mom, I understand. I will learn to count… but count with tenderness, not with money.”