The daughter-in-law was 9 months pregnant but her mother-in-law still forced her to carry a full basin of clothes up 4 floors to the rooftop to dry, and the incident that followed made the whole village cry

: “A daughter-in-law like that, the husband’s family is truly blessed.”

But no one knew that behind the door of that three-story house were days of tears for me — an Indian woman who was nine months pregnant, still having to work hard as a servant in her own house.

My name is Anjali Sharma, 27 years old, living with my husband and mother-in-law in Bani Park, Jaipur city. I was pregnant with my first child, my belly was already heavy, only about two weeks left until my due date. But to my mother-in-law, Savitri Devi, the fact that I was pregnant meant nothing.

She always said in a voice as sharp as a knife:

“I gave birth to three children, still brought water, cooked for the whole family of ten, no one died. Don’t use pregnancy as an excuse to be lazy!”

That morning, the weather in Rajasthan was scorching hot, and my husband — Rohit — was away on a construction project. I had just finished washing a tub full of clothes, heavy with water. I intended to leave them in the yard to dry and then go upstairs to dry them, but my mother-in-law stood on the stairs, hands on hips, her voice harsh:

“Dry them! Dry them on the terrace for me. This house has wind on every floor, why do you keep them dirty on the ground? Don’t rely on it, what a weak pregnancy!”

I tried to beg, my voice trembling:

“Mom, I’m so tired… Can Rohit come back and dry them for me later?”

She rolled her eyes and shouted like thunder:

“If you don’t do it, then leave this house! You’re acting weak even when you’re living in someone else’s house, what a lazy daughter-in-law, wanting to be a queen before giving birth!”

Hearing that, I bit my lip until it bled, trying to carry the tub of clothes upstairs. The stairs were narrow, I had to move step by step, each step felt like a rock pressing down on my back. Sweat poured down like a shower, soaking my sari.

My mother-in-law was still standing below, shouting:

“Hurry up! Why are you crawling like a turtle? People will laugh at you!”

When I just reached the third floor, a wave of dizziness came over me. My eyes were dizzy, my ears were ringing. I only had time to softly cry:

“Mom…” then fell down the stairs.

The laundry basin fell over, water splashed everywhere, spreading all over the floor. I held my stomach and writhed, feeling a sharp pain as if someone had ripped it open inside. A streak of bright red blood gradually spread on the cold tile floor.

Mrs. Savitri screamed. Neighbors ran over, some called an ambulance, some helped me into a taxi to SMS Hospital.

The doctor saw me and shouted:

“Early rupture of membranes, low blood pressure, risk of losing both mother and child!”

The entire emergency room was in chaos. I heard the sound of machines, the doctor’s rapid voice, and then everything went dark.

Two hours later, I woke up in the post-operative room. My son had been born, his cry was as weak as a breeze. The doctor came to me, his voice sad:

“You and the baby are both out of danger, but… due to the severe pelvic trauma, you will not be able to give birth again.”

I was speechless, tears streaming down my face. All my life, I only wished for a peaceful family, but I never expected to pay the price of my ability to be a mother.

During the days I was in the hospital, I did not see my mother-in-law anywhere. Not a single word of inquiry, not a single drop of porridge. But she went around the neighborhood, telling everyone:

“My daughter-in-law fell on her own, I did not force her. She was already weak, now she is blaming her husband’s family. It would be better for my son to marry another woman.”

Hearing those words, my heart ached. I looked at my little son lying in the incubator, my heart filled with bitterness. I didn’t know what the future would bring, I only knew that, at that moment, deep in my heart — I swore — I would never let anyone trample on my son’s life again.