My son Aarav was only a week into his marriage when I noticed something strange.

His wife, Myra, seemed perfect in every way—
cultured, sweet, ready to help anyone.

Lighting a lamp in the temple in the morning, sweeping the courtyard, and greeting the women in the neighborhood with “Namaste, Aunty”—
every day was like the picture of an ideal daughter-in-law.

On the wedding day, relatives had said—

“It’s a good omen, only lucky people get such a daughter-in-law.”

And I believed that too until then.

But Myra did the same thing every morning—

She would change everything—bed sheets, pillowcases, even the duvet cover.

Sometimes even twice a day.

At first, I thought it was a habit of cleaning…

But every day? For no reason?

There was something hidden.

One afternoon, I asked softly—

“Myra, why do you change the sheets every day?”

She smiled and said, “Mom, I’m allergic to dust. I sleep better on fresh bedding.”

Her voice was sweet, but a needle pricked my heart.
The sheets were new, bought for the wedding.
No one was allergic…
Yet she kept washing them, as if she were washing them away some unseen sin.

One morning, I lied, “I’m going to buy vegetables.”
Slammed the door shut, then quietly returned.
She was downstairs in the kitchen.
I slowly went upstairs to her room and opened the door.

A strong, iron-like smell.
My heart raced.
I lifted the sheet and froze.

Dark brown stains on the mattress—blood stains.
Neither fresh nor old—just heavy, as if soaked with pain.

With trembling hands, I opened the drawer—

Inside were bandages, medicine, and a kurta—stiff with dried blood.

My breath stopped.

I ran into the kitchen, grabbed Myra’s hand—

“Tell me the truth, dear, why all this blood? What are you hiding?”

She turned to stone.

Then tears welled up in her eyes—and she wept, clinging to my shoulder.

“Mom… Aarav… has blood cancer. He’s in the last stage. The doctor said he probably doesn’t have much time left. We got married early… so I could be with him for as long as God allowed.”

At that moment, the ground slipped beneath my feet.

My son—the one who lit the lamps in the temple, the one who made tea for me every Sunday—
he… was dying.

And he didn’t even tell me. I sat down on the edge of the bed.

Myra, kneeling on the floor, weeping—

“I change the sheets every day, Mother… because the bleeding doesn’t stop.

I want him to sleep in a clean bed every night, with dignity.”

Tears welled up in my eyes.

I hugged him—

“From now on, you’re not alone, dear. We’ll travel this journey together.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

As soon as morning came, I went to the market—bought new sheets, soap, and a bucket.

Then every day, Myra and I began washing together—
one hand for him, one for me—
as if our tears would dissolve in the soap suds.

Slowly, the days passed.

Aarav grew weaker, but Myra never gave up.

She fed him porridge, placed a cold cloth on his forehead, and sat holding his hand all night.

Three months later, at dawn,
Aarav breathed his last—without a sound, without a complaint. Myra was sitting beside him, saying, “I love you,” when he stopped breathing.

We buried him under the neem tree near the house.

The whole neighborhood came and offered flowers.

My heart was broken,

But Myra… stood straight, tears in her eyes, but a calm dignity on her face.

After the funeral, she refused to go to her parents’ house.

She said, “Mother, this house is mine too. Aarav’s memories are here.”

She’s been here ever since.

We started a small stall together—selling Rajasthani chaat and jalebi.

She laughs, feeds the children, and rings the temple bell every evening.

It’s been two years.

People ask, “Why does your daughter-in-law still live here?”

I smile, “Because she’s not just my daughter-in-law, she’s my daughter.

And this house… is now her temple.”