From the day I married into the Singh family in Lucknow, the only person who made my life bearable was my mother-in-law, Savitri Devi. She was a gentle, calm woman, always cooking delicious food, patiently doing everything—shaped by the age-old traditions of sacrifice.

In contrast, my father-in-law, Rajendra Singh, was domineering and short-tempered. Every word he spoke sounded like an order. After a mild stroke, which left him unable to work, his mood deteriorated. He drank heavily and took out all his anger on his wife.

Once, I suggested Savitri ji come to live with us in the city. She simply gave a sad smile:
“If I leave, who will take care of your father-in-law?”

Every month, she sent us fresh food from the village—vegetables, free-ranging chickens, eggs, even ghee made with her own hands. That day, it was the same. I happily opened everything until I found a box of khoya sweets wrapped in red paper.

Our family had always disliked the sweet. I had even told her outright once: “Mom, no one here eats khoya sweets; they suffocate us.” She had shaken her head and replied, “I don’t like them either.”

But the sweets were here—a big box full of them.

I thought maybe she was forgetting. But something in my heart felt off. As I picked them up, I felt something hard under the paper. I carefully opened the red packaging. My blood boiled.

Inside was a folded note, written in shaky handwriting:

“Save me.”

I immediately called my husband, Arjun. Together, we decided to call home casually. We learned that Rajendra had taken Savitri’s phone and locked her in the house.

Without hesitation, we returned to the village that very night.

When we arrived, she was huddled in the kitchen, her eyes swollen from crying. The house was a mess—broken utensils were scattered, doors were locked from the outside. After their last fight, my father-in-law had smashed things and locked her inside. He even gave the food packets she had sent us to a neighbor to deliver.

I didn’t argue much. I just held her hand and said:
“Mom, come with us. No one has the right to treat you like this.”

After a heated argument, we brought her home to Lucknow. But she remained silent, avoiding everyone’s gaze. That night, I saw her sitting quietly, folding clothes through tears.

This morning, she whispered:
“Let me go back, son. When her anger subsides, she will regret what she said. If I stay away, she will be lost without me.”

My chest swelled. Even after being imprisoned, humiliated, and broken, she was still thinking about her husband—she feared that if she left him, he would “lose his way.”

Now I am devastated. I know I did the right thing by taking her away. But if she insists on coming back, should I let her? Or should I stand firm once again, and show her that in this world, a woman doesn’t have to suffer to survive?

That morning, when Savitri Devi held my hand tightly and said in a trembling voice:

“Son, let Mother go. When her anger subsides, she will think again…”

I turned to my husband, Arjun. He was silent for a moment, then shook his head firmly:

“No, Mom. I won’t let Mom go back to that place. We took Mom because we love her, not because we pity her. Mom has her own home here, grandchildren, and all of us. Mom is no one’s property.”

Savitri Devi burst into tears. She had been accustomed to patience all her life, and hearing these words felt like a major blow to the wall of defeat she had built around herself.

Early Days
In those early days in Lucknow, she would still sit quietly in a corner, her hands on her rosary beads, her eyes averted. After cooking, she would always step back to let us eat first. Once, when I gently picked up food for her, she was startled and shook her head:
“I’ve gotten used to it. Let the children eat.”

I held her hand:
“Mom, now you are the one who is loved. No one has the right to abandon you forever.”

That night, for the first time, she agreed to sit at the table and let Arjun and me bring her vegetables and hot bread.

A Little Happiness

My little granddaughter was very attached to her. After school, she ran into her arms:
“Grandma, tell me stories about the old days in the village!”

A child’s laughter dispelled the sadness hidden in the corners of her eyes. I saw Savitri Devi slowly coming back to life, smiling more and more every day.

One afternoon, I took her for a walk in the park. She looked at the other women laughing and talking, then sighed softly:

“All my life, I thought a woman’s duty was to endure. Today I realized… I realized that I too have the right to be happy.”

I held her shoulder and replied softly:

“You are not only entitled, but also worthy.”

Light at the End of the Tunnel

After a few months, Savitri Devi’s health had improved significantly. She learned to cook some new dishes with me, practiced light yoga, and occasionally went to the market with her grandchildren to pick out sarees. The woman who had once been shy and quiet now knew how to smile and accept care.

One evening, during a family meal, she placed her hand on Arjun and me, and with tears in her eyes, she said in a firm voice:

“Thank you, my children. You have made me understand: being a woman doesn’t mean surrendering yourself for life. I will stay right here, in this home – where there is love, not fear.”

From then on, our home truly brightened. There were no more arguments, only the laughter of our grandchildren, my grandmother’s sweet stories, and family dinners.

Savitri Devi finally found her worth – not in patience, but in being loved for who she was.

And I understand, sometimes it takes a little determination to pull a woman out of darkness. Because only when she emerges will she realize: happiness has never been a luxury, but a right to live peacefully in love.