Arjun and I have been married for over a year. Our married life has been peaceful, except for one thing: my mother-in-law, Shanti, has a strange habit.

Every night, at exactly 3 a.m., she knocks on our bedroom door. The knocking isn’t loud, just three soft “knock-knock-knock” sounds, but it’s enough to wake me up. At first, I thought she was in the wrong room or needed something. But when I opened the door, the hallway in our Delhi house was dark, and no one was in sight.

Arjun had told me not to pay attention, as his mother often wanders around at night due to insomnia. But the frightening frequency made me suspicious.

Installing a Hidden Camera

After about a month of trouble, I decided to install a small camera in the hallway, right in front of the bedroom door. I didn’t tell Arjun, because he would ignore it and say I was being too suspicious.

That night, at exactly 3 a.m., there was another knock on the door. I lay quietly, pretending to be asleep, my heart pounding.

The next morning, I turned on the camera. I was stunned by what I saw. When I pulled Arjun closer to look, he was stunned too.

The camera showed my mother-in-law, dressed in a white nightgown, leaving her room and heading straight for our door. She stopped, looked around as if no one was watching. Then she raised her hand and said, “Knock, knock, knock,” three times. But after that, she didn’t return to her room. She stared motionlessly at the door for about ten minutes, her cold eyes seeming to penetrate the wood to watch us. Then she quietly walked out of the frame.

The truth slowly emerged.

I turned to Arjun, waiting for an explanation. He was silent, his face pale. “You know something, right?” I asked.

Finally, she sighed, her voice shaking:
“Mom… he had no intention of upsetting me. He has his own reasons.”

But she refused to explain. I was furious, and I said I would ask his mother directly.

A Scary Confrontation

I spoke to Mrs. Shanti in the living room. I told her everything about the camera, about the video. I asked directly:
“What do you do every night? Why do you keep knocking on the door and standing there like that?”

She put down her teacup, her eyes cold:
“What do you think I do?” – her voice was so deep it was frightening.

Then she left, leaving me trembling.

That night, I stared at the camera for days. And I discovered something even more terrifying: After knocking, she took a small key from her nightgown pocket and inserted it into our door, but didn’t open it. She held the key there for just a few seconds, then took it out and left.

The Secret in the Notebook

The next morning, I searched Arjun’s drawers. In one of the boxes, I found an old notebook. Inside, there was a note:

“Mom started wandering around at night. She said she heard noises in the house, but when I checked, there was nothing. She told me not to worry, but I was afraid she was hiding something.”

I called Arjun back. At that time, he confessed: after his father’s death, his mother had developed obsessive-compulsive disorder. She always felt there was an intruder, so she checked every night, even in our room. But recently, she had started whispering strange things, like: “Arjun needs to be protected from them.”

The fear persisted

I was stunned. It turned out the knocking was a medical issue. But what was bothering me was a key: what would she do if she actually opened the door one night?

I told Arjun to take my mother to a psychiatrist, or I would leave the house. He agreed, but his eyes were still filled with worry—as if another secret remained unsaid.

That night, I changed the bedroom lock. But when the sound of “knock, knock, knock” came again at three in the morning, I didn’t dare open my eyes. Because I knew the scariest thing wasn’t just the knocking, but what Shanti would do next.

Part 2: Shanti’s Secret Past
A Visit with a Psychiatrist

After being troubled by knocking at the door at three in the morning for several nights, Arjun and I finally took my mother-in-law, Shanti, to a psychiatrist at a small clinic in New Delhi.

She sat motionless in a chair, her eyes wandering. Dr. Mehra, a gentle middle-aged man, had been listening to our strange behavior: knocking on the door, standing and staring, whispering incomprehensible sentences.

He nodded, then calmly asked a few questions. She remained silent for a long moment, then said softly:
“I have to see… That person will come back… I can’t lose my son again…”

Hearing this, Arjun and I were terrified.

The Root Cause

After several sessions, Dr. Mehra called my husband and me into a private room. He said sternly:
“I’ve checked. This obsession with Shanti is not natural. It stems from some deep trauma in the past.”

He said: About 30 years ago, when the family still lived in Lucknow, the old house was burgled. An intruder broke in at midnight and entered the bedroom. At that moment, Shanti’s husband, Arjun’s father, resisted. As a result, he was stabbed to death right in front of Shanti’s eyes.

From that day on, Shanti always feared that the “intruder” would return. She developed obsessive-compulsive disorder: every night she had to check all the doors in the house. After her husband’s death, this obsession intensified.

Dr. Mehra looked directly at us:
“When the daughter-in-law came to live with us, she saw Rahul as a ‘potential stranger,’ as if he might take her husband away. So she muttered, ‘I have to protect Arjun from him.’ This wasn’t true hatred, but a pathological fear that never healed.”

Facing the Truth

I sat quietly, my hands cold. I thought Shanti was deliberately trying to harm me. But it turned out she was trapped in the darkness of the past.

Arjun sat with his head bowed, his eyes red:
“All these years, I didn’t realize… I just thought you couldn’t sleep… If I had paid more attention then, maybe you wouldn’t have suffered so much.”

The doctor said softly:
“No one is to blame. The important thing is that we now understand the cause. Shanti needs long-term treatment, perhaps with mild sedatives. But most of all, she needs patience and understanding from her family.”

My Decision

That evening, back home in Delhi, I went into the room and saw Shanti sitting by the window, staring blankly at the courtyard. She said softly:
“I don’t want to scare you… I just… I just want to make sure my son is safe.”

For the first time, my trembling stopped. I went over and placed a hand on her shoulder:
“Mom, we understand. You don’t need to knock anymore. Arjun and I will always be here. No one can harm us.”

She turned, her eyes filled with tears, as if a lost child had finally found refuge.

A New Beginning

From that day on, Arjun and I took turns staying with her in the living room at night, so she could feel safe. We also took her to the doctor regularly.

The 3 a.m. knocking gradually disappeared, replaced by more peaceful mornings.

I realized that the terrifying truth wasn’t that my mother-in-law wanted to harm me, but that the wounds of the past had never healed. And when we faced this, we not only saved peace, but also saved our family from falling apart.

Part 3: The Journey of Healing at Home in Delhi
The Difficult Early Days

After learning the truth, I – Rahul – began to view Shanti differently. No longer with fear, but with compassion. It’s easy to say, but living with those terrifying expressions every day is a huge challenge.

Some nights, she would still wake up suddenly and run to the hallway to check the door. One day, she knocked on the living room window and muttered: “He’s back… I hear footsteps…” I tried to get out, gently took her hand, and led her to bed. Although I was tired, I had to stop myself from getting angry.

Arjun would always remind me:
“Remember, Mom didn’t mean it. She’s the victim, not the enemy.”

Those words taught me to take a deep breath and listen instead of reacting.

The change is happening slowly.

Following Dr. Mehra’s advice, we created a new routine for my mother-in-law.

Every night, before bed, the three of us check the door together to make her feel safe.

Arjun installed an electronic lock with an alarm so she can be sure that “strangers” can’t come in.

I made chamomile tea, sat with her for a few minutes, and talked about light things: the morning market in Delhi, the familiar scent of masala chai, or her favorite paratha.

At first, she remained silent. But then, slowly, she said: “Remember to take your shawl to the balcony to dry in the sun, it’s cold.” A simple sentence, but to me, it was a sign that she was opening up again.

What Rahul Learned

I used to think that patience was waiting for someone to change. But living with my mother-in-law, I realized that patience means changing yourself—accepting small things over and over again, not giving up, not complaining.

One day, I was preparing to give an online presentation for work when I heard a knock on the window. I went outside and saw her standing there, her hands shaking with the old keys. Instead of yelling, I crouched down at her eye level:

“Mom, the door is locked. No one can harm us now.”

Her eyes softened, her lips trembled, and she murmured: “Really?”

“Really, Mom. Arjun and I are here. You’re safe.”

At that moment, I realized that compassion isn’t just pity, but also putting yourself in another person’s fear and reassuring them with your firm presence.

The family reunited

After a few months, the knocking on the door at 3 a.m. gradually stopped. Shanti began sleeping more deeply and having fewer nightmares. Dr. Mehra said her condition was improving, and most importantly, the family atmosphere had become “medicine.”

Arjun and I also learned to work together:

He became a support for my mother.

Instead of being defensive, I learned to listen.

We started eating meals together regularly, telling jokes, and watching old Indian movies she loved. The tense house now echoed with gentle laughter.

The End

I realized that healing doesn’t mean “fixing someone,” but rather going through the darkness together. My mother-in-law learned to trust again, Arjun learned to open up, and I learned to exercise patience and compassion.

Some wounds never heal, but when we heal them together, they make our family stronger and more connected.

Tonight, I was writing a few lines in my diary, listening to everyone’s breathing in our Delhi apartment. And for the first time in months, I felt a sense of peace.