Two days ago, it was my birthday. My husband – Arjun Sharma – sent just a brief “Happy Birthday” message and then left for work. No flowers, no gifts, no dinner. I consoled myself: “He must be busy, let’s forget it.”

But this afternoon, as soon as I arrived at my apartment in Andheri, I saw a large box on the sofa. Inside was a bright red dress. Before I could ask, Arjun smiled:

Oh, this dress is for Priya – my sister-in-law. It’s her birthday tomorrow.

I was stunned. My sister-in-law, that is, the wife of Rohan – my husband’s younger brother. He remembered her birthday every day and every hour, but he… forgot his wife’s birthday.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The image of Arjun holding the red dress kept haunting me. I started investigating.

The first thing that made me suspicious was the receipt: it was printed last week – just before my birthday. I secretly checked Arjun’s phone and saw several WhatsApp messages:

Arjun: “This dress looks great on you, try it on for me tomorrow.”

Priya: “I’m just afraid people will see…”

Arjun: “It’s me, don’t worry.”

My hands were shaking. I decided to sneak behind him.

The next afternoon, making an excuse to leave work early, I stopped outside a small cafe in Bandra. Inside, Arjun and Priya were sitting next to each other; Priya was wearing the exact same red dress. The expression on their faces… it couldn’t match a typical “husband-sister-in-law” expression.

Dã tạo hình ảnh

I quietly took a photo, my heart aching and I was feeling cold. When I got home that night, I put the photo on the table and said nothing. Arjun saw her, and his face turned pale. Rohan opened the door, came in, saw the photo, and both brothers were stunned.

In that moment, I understood: The red dress wasn’t a carefree birthday gift, but a hint of a secret that had been simmering for a long time—enough to tear apart two families.

The air was thick, and only the ticking sound of the clock remained. Rohan asked, trembling:

— Brother… with my wife… what?

Arjun bowed his head silently. Priya burst into tears, stammering:

— I… I’m sorry…

I looked at them, trying to keep my voice calm:
— I want to hear everything right now.

Arjun took a deep breath and confessed: Before marrying me, he had a brief relationship with the girl next door—Priya. Then Priya married Rohan. I thought everything was over, but ever since Priya became my daughter-in-law, they’ve been meeting frequently. At first, it was just a few greetings, then seemingly innocent “brother-in-law-sister-in-law” favors, and eventually, we’ve gone on secret coffee dates.

The red dress… wasn’t just a gift. In the photo folder, I could still see a photo of them walking to a beach in Goa a month ago, when Arjun had told me they were going on a “business trip.”

Rohan was horrified to hear this; his face turned pale, his eyes red. As for me, I was angry, but I couldn’t shed a tear. I stood up and said clearly:

From now on, I’m not your wife.

I left the apartment, followed by the sounds of arguing, crying, and a family falling apart… all of which had started with that fateful red dress.

The Red Dress at the Altar

The night I left my apartment in Andheri, Mumbai, it was raining lightly. I sat in the back of an auto-rickshaw, clutching my handbag as if clinging to my last remaining dignity. The red of the dress in the photo caught my eye—the same red as my wedding dupatta, but this time it was a warning red.

The next morning, I returned. Not to stay, but to make things right.

1) Family Meeting at the Sharma Family Home

My mother-in-law, Sarla Devi, called the family to the open terrace where we dried papadam and made small talk. Today, there were no small talks. Arjun sat quietly, Rohan leaned against the railing, and Priya clung to the edge of the chair, her hands clenched until they turned white.

I placed the envelopes in the middle of the table: the receipt for the red dress in Bandra, the coffee photos, the plane ticket to Goa for “business.”

I looked at Arjun:
— Tell me. In front of your mother, in front of your brother.

Arjun took a deep breath:
— I… was wrong. It started with a message asking how I was, then I accidentally crossed the line. I thought I was in control, but it wasn’t.

Rohan gritted his teeth and said:
— Brother, before marriage, did you and her…?

Arjun shook his head:
— At first, there was a vague feeling. Then we separated. I thought it was all over.

Priya burst into tears:
— I’m sorry, I know I deserved to be scolded. I tried to avoid it, but every time I argued with Rohan, I… I’d find him.

Sarla Devi slammed her hand on the table, her voice dry:
— In this house, it’s better for you two to separate than to crush the trust you both have in each other. No one forces their children to come together by lying.

I turned to Rohan:
—Whatever you want, I’m with you.

Rohan swallowed and said:
—I want truth and… respect. Let me decide the rest.

2) Three papers and a mangalsutra

I took out three papers.

A temporary separation between Arjun and me for 6 months, pending a final decision.

Memorandum of Understanding: No personal contact between Arjun and Priya; if violated, both parties agree to seek reconciliation in the Bandra Family Court.

Financial Agreement: Arjun transfers all of our joint savings to an account in my name—as compensation for months of infidelity.

I placed my mangalsutra on the table:
— If you have any personal contact with Priya in the next 6 months, I will sign the divorce. Now, I’m taking off my mangalsutra not because I no longer like my marriage, but because I want to maintain my self-respect.

Arjun bowed his head and signed. His mother-in-law said nothing, just turned her face away, her shoulders shaking slightly.

Priya also signed the bond. She looked at me slowly:
— I’m sorry, sister-in-law. Starting today, I’ll be moving back to my mother’s house for a few months.

Rohan folded the paper:
— As for my brother and I, I’ll tell my parents later.

One afternoon, Priya texted to meet at Juhu Beach. I agreed. Waves were crashing against the shore, kites were challenging the wind. Priya held a cloth bag; inside was a red dress, still smelling of that day.

— I’ve washed it, and I want to… return it. Not to you—to my conscience.

I looked down at the sand:
— I can return the dress, but what about trust?

Priya looked up, her eyes puffy:
— Wait. I’ll work part-time as a consultant at a women’s handicrafts shop—stay away from places where I might meet her. Rohan… she told me to think for myself. I don’t ask for your forgiveness, I just ask… Don’t hate yourself for believing wrongly.

The wind blew, the red skirt fluttered. I said:
— Burn it—not to erase it, but to end it.

We gathered dry twigs from a deserted area and lit it. The red glow flared for a moment, then faded like a sigh.

Arjun—The Ethics Class and Unanswered Questions

Arjun sent me an email confirming my attendance at the Maharashtra Medical Association’s Ethics in Clinical Practice course. That evening, he stood outside the door, not going in, saying only this:

— I don’t ask for your forgiveness. I ask you to give me a chance to repay what I’ve stolen: your peace.

— From whom?

— By not hurting you again, even if you want to leave.

I closed the door. In the darkness, I realized I was tired, but I wasn’t shaking anymore. There were some questions that didn’t need to be answered immediately; time will determine each person’s path.

Rohan texted me: “Bhabhi, I need to talk.” We met at an old Iranian tea stall on the street. Rohan sipped tea, his eyes red.

— I won’t hit my brother, or curse my wife. I’ll just… stop. If after six months, my heart still wants to stop, I’ll tell you. Otherwise, I’ll sign. I don’t want to turn myself into a shadow of a dress.

I nodded:
— Please don’t turn yourself into a shadow of anger. You deserve something much brighter.

Rohan smiled sadly:
— I’ll try to be the man of my life, not the basis for other people’s mistakes.

Time was passing like a train carefully passing through each station. I moved into a small room near Powai, took on a new project, learned to drive, and signed up for a morning yoga class. Every day, I texted myself: “Today, I live for myself.”

The second month, his mother-in-law called:
— Son, I’m sorry. I didn’t notice these gestures. If you want to sign now, I’m still here.

I said:
—Mom, if there’s no change in my heart in the next six months, I’ll sign. I’m not waiting for anyone to fix me, I’m just delaying my own words.

In the fourth month, Priya wrote a handwritten letter, its purple ink blurred: “I’ve moved in with my parents. Rohan hasn’t met me yet. I accept all his decisions. I’ve asked for a job transfer. I’m attending a marriage counseling class at a community center. If we ever get together again, it will be a new marriage—not another one. If not, I can still live.”

I folded the letter, my chest feeling lighter.

In the sixth month, Arjun left a small box at my door. I opened it, not a gift, but a stack of statements: the ownership of the Andheri apartment had been transferred to my name, along with a voluntary departure letter after the process was complete—a belated thank you for the years we’d spent together.

At the bottom was a small note: “If you sign, I won’t stop you. If you want to try again, I’ll start from scratch—with clear boundaries.”

I placed the stack of papers on a small altar in my room and lit incense. I didn’t ask for advice, just thanked myself for having made it through half a year without losing my self-respect.

The Court—and My Own Answer

The day of the meeting at the Bandra Family Court arrived. I was wearing a white salwar, no jewelry. Arjun sat a row away, his head bowed.

The judge asked:
— Do you both still want to reconcile?

I stared at Arjun for a long time. The red of that dress, the Juhu fire, Irani tea, the email from the ethics class, my mother-in-law’s cry, and my own “Today, I live for you” flashed through my mind. Then I heard a very clear answer, coming from within me:

— Honorable, I choose… freedom.

Arjun looked up, his eyes moist, but he didn’t say “Please don’t do this.” He just nodded—a respectful nod. Rohan was waiting on a chair outside, and when he saw me come out, he simply asked:
— Are you okay?

— You’re okay. And me?

— I’m okay too. Whether you stay or go, I’ll never betray you again.

I smiled. Outside, the Mumbai sun cast a golden glow through the coconut trees.

Conclusion—Another Red

Over the weekend, I stopped at a Mahila Mandal charity shop. A bright red scarf on a hanger caught my eye. I bought it not to cover a wound, but to remind myself: red isn’t just a symbol of taboo—red is also life force, the right to choose.

I put on the scarf and headed out into the street. The city was noisy, but my heart was at peace. Old people will continue to live by their own choices. And I, after that fateful red dress, learned to put myself back together—the last stitch was freedom and dignity.