My daughter returned home on her bloody wedding night. Her mother-in-law had slapped her 40 times and forced her to hand over 50 crore rupees as a dowry! Tears welled up in my eyes as I called my ex-husband…
My daughter Priya’s wedding night should have been the end of a long love journey and the beginning of peace. I stood at the door, my hands still smelling of incense from the wedding, finishing clearing the offerings, when the doorbell rang with a short, urgent chime.

Priya stood there. Her magnificent wedding sari had been replaced by a thin shawl, but the high-pulled veil couldn’t hide the bruises. Her black hair was disheveled, her eyes swollen, her lips pale. I was stunned to see dried blood stains on her sleeve.

“Priya… beta…?” I touched her shoulder; she trembled as if she had a fever.

Priya didn’t cry immediately. She just looked straight at me, her eyes seemingly devoid of tears. “Maa… I’m home. I can’t bear it anymore.”

I pulled my daughter inside and slammed the gate shut. As soon as she sat down, she burst into tears. “Mrs. Mehta… my mother-in-law… she hit me.” Priya struggled to pronounce each word clearly, as if afraid that a wrong word would turn everything into a nightmare.

“Why did she hit you?” I heard my voice hoarse.

Priya clenched her fists, her nails digging into her skin. “Because… because I didn’t give her the money. She said… ‘dowry’ had to be fifty crore rupees. She said we cheated her family, and after the wedding we had to ‘give’ the full amount.”

I choked. Fifty crore rupees? We were a small business family in a Delhi neighborhood; we struggled to raise money for the wedding, where would we get that much?

Priya shuddered as she recalled each slap. “She slapped me… so many times, Maa. I counted… forty times. Raj… Raj, stand there.” My daughter gasped, her voice breaking. “He didn’t intervene. He said… ‘My mother’s angry, just bear with it for a little while.’ Then she dragged my daughter in front of the ancestral altar and made her kneel and apologize for ‘entering her husband’s house empty-handed.’”

My face flushed, not from shame, but from humiliation and anger that made my blood boil. I looked at my daughter—the one I once held close, sheltering her from the rain and sun—now like an object thrown back at me.

I reached for my phone. Only one name flashed through my mind, a name I’d tried to forget for seven years: Arjun, my ex-husband. I dialed, my hand trembling so much I almost dropped it.

“Arjun,” I said, my voice like fire burning in my throat. “Priya was beaten by her in-laws… they’re forcing her to give fifty crore. Can… can you come right now?”

On the other end of the line, there was a moment of silence. Then his voice lowered: “Lock the door. Don’t let anyone in. I’ll be there immediately.”

I pulled the curtains shut and locked the door with both locks. Priya sat huddled on the sofa, her hands clutching her knees, as if they would shatter if she let go. I went to get a warm towel to wipe her face, noticing a small crack at the corner of her lip. I didn’t dare ask about the “wedding night,” only the most important question: “Were you… assaulted?”

Priya shook her head immediately, tears flowing even faster. “No, Maa. I managed to escape. Raj… he pulled my hand back once, but Mehta rushed in, slapped me, and threatened to call relatives to ‘teach’ me a lesson. I was so scared… I hid in the bathroom. I called a taxi home.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, but still felt a heavy weight in my heart. Just then, my phone rang incessantly. An unknown number. I answered, and a shrill woman’s voice rang out; I didn’t need to guess it was Mehta.

“Is this Sharma? Your daughter-in-law is so ill-mannered! She ran away from her husband’s house on the first night of the wedding! What kind of upbringing did you give her?”

I gritted my teeth. “You hit my child. And you’re demanding fifty crore rupees?”

She sneered. “That’s our custom. If you don’t have it, sell the house. Your daughter has entered my house; if you want peace, you’d better behave.”

I hung up. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, I’d blurt out something I couldn’t take back. But the silence didn’t last long. Less than ten minutes later, there was a loud banging on the gate. Someone shouted, “Open the door! My daughter-in-law has to come home!”

Priya turned pale. I stood in front of my child, phone in hand, dialing 100 (India’s emergency number), but my fingers trembled.

A moment later, the sound of brakes screeching echoed in front of the gate. Arjun appeared. He was wearing a dark kurta, his hair still wet as if he’d just rushed out of the house. I’d gotten used to not asking him for help anymore—since the divorce—but tonight, seeing him standing there, I realized I’d been holding on for too long.

Arjun glanced at Priya, his gaze shifting from sorrow to icy coldness. “Are you seriously injured?”

Priya choked out, “Papa… I’m scared.”

He didn’t ask any further questions. He turned to me: “Turn on your phone’s camera. Record everything. If they cause trouble, I’ll call the local police.” Then he walked to the gate, keeping a safe distance, without opening it.

Through the crack in the door, I saw Mehta and Raj standing with two strange men. Raj was still wearing his wedding sherwani, slightly disheveled, his eyes red—whether from alcohol or anger, I couldn’t tell.

Mehta pointed inside: “Bring my daughter-in-law back! She’s disgraced my family!”

Arjun stood straight, his voice low but clear: “My daughter is at her mother’s house. Whoever beat her, whoever extorted money, please speak to the police. And if you keep banging on the door, I’ll call them right now.”

Mehta glared: “Who are you to interfere? This is my ex-wife’s family matter, so keep quiet!”

Arjun tilted his head slightly and said slowly, “I am Priya’s biological father. And this is her mother’s house. You just mentioned ‘selling the house to give fifty crores’—that’s extortion.”

Raj stepped forward, his voice hoarse: “Uncle Arjun, I’m sorry… My mother is angry, but… Priya is my wife. I’ve come to pick Priya up. Let’s talk about this calmly.”

I chuckled bitterly. “Calmly? My daughter’s lip is torn, her clothes are stained with blood, and you say calm?”

Raj bowed his head briefly, but Mrs. Mehta snarled: “She deserves it! How much did my family spend on this wedding? Not giving the dowry is fraud!”

Arjun didn’t argue further. He took out his phone and called the local police station. I heard him give the address in the Greater Kailash area, summarizing: “A group of people are gathering, banging on the door, making threats, showing signs of extortion and assault.”

Just a few minutes later, police sirens blared. Two officers got out, asked for identification, and dispersed the crowd. Mehta kept shouting that it was “custom,” but when a police officer asked, “What custom explicitly states fifty crore? And who allows slapping someone forty times?”, she fell silent for a second before bursting into tears, playing the victim.

I opened the door and showed the police the phone with Priya’s account and the photos of the bruises. Arjun suggested filing a report on the spot, documenting the assault, and inviting all parties to come in for questioning the next morning. Raj then looked panicked: he hadn’t thought things would turn into legal trouble.

As they left, Mehta turned back and spat out, “Thought you got away with it? This daughter-in-law will pay the price!”

The gate closed. The house fell silent. Priya suddenly burst into tears, then, exhausted, leaned on her father’s shoulder. Arjun placed his hand on Priya’s head, his voice slow and heavy: “Tomorrow, your father and I will take you to the doctor for a medical examination and injury assessment. No one is allowed to do this to you—even if they call it ‘my husband’s family’.”

I looked at my ex-husband, and for the first time in years, I saw that he was no longer the man who had hurt me. He was the father of my child. And tonight, that was enough.

The next morning, Arjun took Priya to the hospital in South Delhi. I went with them. The doctor examined her, took X-rays, and concluded that there were no broken bones, but several bruises on her face and hands, and a small cut at the corner of her lip. They instructed us to obtain a medical-legal case report, as this document was crucial if they wanted to clarify the assault.

Priya sat in the waiting area, holding a bottle of water but not drinking. She watched the passersby as if looking at a life that no longer belonged to her. I was in so much pain I didn’t know how to comfort her, I just held her hand tightly. Arjun spoke little, but he did a lot: taking queue numbers, asking about procedures, requesting copies of documents, keeping all receipts. He said, “Don’t let emotions get the better of you. We need evidence.”

That afternoon, we went to the police station as requested. Raj came alone, looking tired. Mrs. Mehta didn’t show up, only sent a “statement” claiming Priya “fell on her own,” and that the “dowry was a prenuptial agreement.” I wanted to jump up after hearing it, but the investigating officer gestured for me to remain calm.

When questioned, Raj stammered. He admitted there was a “heated argument” and a “scuffle,” but tried to downplay it: “My mother only threatened, she didn’t extort money. The fifty crore figure was… she said it in anger.”

Arjun put his phone on the table: the recording of last night’s call, Mrs. Mehta’s voice clearly saying, “Sell the house,” “If you don’t give it, you won’t have peace.” I saw Raj’s face turn pale.

Arjun put the phone on the table: the recording of last night’s call, Mrs. Mehta’s voice clearly saying, “Sell the house,” “If you don’t give it, you won’t have peace.” I saw Raj’s face turn pale.

The investigating officer asked directly, “Mr. Raj, do you know that demanding dowry like that could be considered extortion under the Anti-Dowry Act? And that slapping and causing injury constitutes assault?”

Raj bowed his head, his hands clasped together. “I… I didn’t think it would go that far. I’m sorry, Ms. Sharma, I’m sorry, Priya.”

Priya sat silently, her eyes fixed on the floor. I knew she was wondering: what does it mean for the man who stood by and watched his mother slap his wife last night to apologize today?

Leaving the station, Raj stopped us at the gate. “Priya… can you come home and talk to me? I’ll tell Mom to apologize, I’ll… I’ll make amends.”

Priya looked up, her voice low but firm: “How will you make amends? You didn’t protect me when I needed it most.”

Raj seemed struck. He reached out his hand, then withdrew it. “You’re stuck… that’s your mother…”

Arjun took a step forward, not shouting, but simply saying, as if to conclude: “Your wife was beaten, demanded dowry. If you choose to remain silent, you’ve chosen to side with the perpetrator. You’re young, you still have a chance to be a decent person—but not by dragging Priya back there.”

That evening, Mrs. Mehta called me back, her voice softer. She no longer cursed, but began with “Ms. Sharma,” then beat me up: “Well, since it’s already happened… Let’s negotiate. I don’t need fifty crore anymore. Just give me ten crore upfront to ‘save face,’ then Priya can come to my house, and we’ll consider it nothing.”

I laughed, tears welling up in my eyes. “You beat my daughter and now you’re asking for money to save face?”

She lowered her voice, threatening in a different way: “If you make a big deal out of this, I’ll tell the press that your daughter left on her wedding night. Who will be more humiliated then?”

I saw Priya huddled in the room, listening intently. She shivered slightly. I felt a fire erupt in my chest. I said slowly, “Go ahead. I’ll give them all the evidence. The shameful one is the one who assaults someone and demands dowry through violence.”

I hung up, my hands still shaking, but this time not from fear. I called the lawyer using the number Arjun had recommended. The lawyer explained that if Priya wanted, she could file a complaint about the assault and demand dowry, and regarding the marriage, depending on the circumstances, they could proceed with a divorce or request annulment if there was evidence of coercion or threats. I didn’t fully understand the terms, but I understood one thing: my child had the right to safety.

In the following days, Priya didn’t leave the house much. At night, she would startle easily, turning pale at the sound of cars outside. I took a few days off from selling at my small shop, staying home to cook porridge, prepare milk, and give her medicine. Arjun visited every evening, not saying empty platitudes, but quietly fixing the broken door latch from the day before, adding a lock, and changing the camera.

A week later, Raj sent Priya a long message: he apologized, said he would move out, wouldn’t let his mother interfere, and asked Priya for a chance. After reading the message, Priya didn’t reply immediately. She showed the phone to me and Arjun, then said, “I don’t want revenge. But I also don’t want to go back and see if they’ll hit me again.”

I hugged her tightly. “Choosing peace is the right thing to do.”

Arjun nodded. “We don’t need to win them with money. We win by not letting them take away your life.”

Finally, Priya filed a full report. The authorities summoned Mehta for questioning. I don’t know where this legal story will lead, but I know one thing for sure: from that wedding night, my family no longer viewed marriage as “enduring to maintain false honor.” We see it as a place where people must be respected.

And I—a mother who once feared gossip and “what will people say”—for the first time dared to stand tall and say to myself: my daughter’s honor doesn’t lie in whether she “stays in her husband’s house,” but in whether she remains intact to live on.