My mother-in-law suddenly gave me ₹20 lakh and told me to go abroad for a vacation. The day I left for the airport, I quietly returned and discovered a horrifying truth…
My mother-in-law suddenly gave me ₹20 lakh and told me to go abroad for a vacation. The day I left for the airport, I quietly returned and discovered a horrifying truth…
My husband and I have been married for five years. Married life isn’t always a happy one, but I still consider myself lucky to have a considerate mother-in-law. She is very polite, rarely interferes, and often offers gentle advice.

Recently, I was exhausted from work and feeling depressed. My husband—Hitesh—was busy all day, and had very little time to pay attention to me. Seeing me so tired, one afternoon my mother-in-law, Mrs. Sarla, called me into the living room of our house in Gurugram and placed a thick envelope in front of me:

“Take this. Here’s ₹20 lakh. Go to Europe to relax. Go for a few weeks, then come back and think about it.”

I was stunned. My mother-in-law had never given me such a large sum of money, nor had she advised me to go on a trip. At first, I was moved—I thought she truly loved me. But then I became suspicious: why would she want me out of the house at this time?

Still, I agreed: I packed my bags and booked a ticket to IGI Airport, Terminal 3. Hitesh didn’t object, simply saying: “Go, get some fresh air. Mom will take care of you at home.” This statement confused me even more.

The day I left for the airport, my mother-in-law personally picked me up and gave me various instructions. I hugged him goodbye and gave him a strange smile. But when he turned his face away, I thought: I should pretend to fly away and then quietly return. I wanted to know what had happened to this house in my absence.

I took a taxi back to DLF Phase 3, got off a few hundred meters before home, and started walking. As I reached the end of the street, my heart started pounding. The door was open, and loud laughter could be heard inside. I leaned against the corner of the wall and peeked inside.

I was stunned by the sight before my eyes: In the living room, Hitesh was sitting next to a little girl—hair tied back, brightly dressed—and she was leaning on his shoulder, talking and laughing. What’s worse, Mrs. Sarla was also present. He didn’t object, but happily served more food, smiling and saying:

“The daughter-in-law is gone, so you can rest from now on. I just hope Hitesh has someone to take care of him. This Riya is a nice girl, I like her very much.”

My ears started ringing. It turned out the trip she had “arranged” was just a pretext to get me out of the house, to make way for someone else. The 20 lakh rupees was just a “consolation” for me to leave quietly.

That night, I didn’t return home. I rented a small hotel in Karol Bagh (New Delhi) and tossed and turned all night. It was painful, but I didn’t let myself break down. If I had remained silent, I would have always suffered.

The next morning, I contacted a lawyer in Saket, inquired about the property division process, and prepared the necessary documents. I also asked an acquaintance to record clear evidence. I wanted everything to be transparent.

Two weeks later, when they still thought I was having fun in Europe, I walked into the living room, lawyer and file in hand. All three of them were pale. Hitesh stammered, Mrs. Sarla was confused, and Riya quickly ignored me.

I looked at them directly, calmly but firmly:
“Thank you for the ₹20 lakh you gave me. I will use it to start a new life, freer and lighter. From now on, I have nothing to do with this family.”

With that, I placed the divorce papers on the table, turned around, and left without looking back. This time, I left that house not as an outcast, but as a strong woman ready to choose happiness for herself.

Part 2 — “Status Quo”

I left the house in DLF Phase 3 with light steps, but my heart was still as heavy as a stone. The 20 lakh rupees lay quietly in the sub-account my lawyer had suggested opening separately, as if an invisible line was severing all old relationships. I had rented a small room on the third floor of an apartment building in Karol Bagh, its window overlooking a street filled with motorcycles, and the mornings were filled with the aroma of chai masala and fried parathas. At night, the sound of horns was like waves, but I fell asleep—not because there was silence, but because there was peace.

Lawyer Arjun Malhotra met me at his office in Saket. He said softly, his eyes staring straight ahead:

“I will seek a status quo order for all the land, vehicles, shares, and joint property in Hitesh’s name. Don’t rush. This is a long term.”

I nodded. Long term—something I had never dared to think about before.

In the days that followed, I transformed Karol Bagh into my “therapeutic kitchen.” I ordered a second-hand oven, took a short baking course in Rajouri Garden, and put up a handwritten sign: “Buy Ann – Fresh Bakes & Tea.” I learned how to sift flour without spilling it all over the counter, how to weigh butter on a flickering electric scale, and how to watch a saffron-pistachio cake bloom in the oven light. The faint scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafted through the hallway, and curious female neighbors came in to ask questions and buy some. The cake didn’t bring much, but each transaction felt like a pulse of relief.

Arjun texted, “Tomorrow, 9:00 am, Family Court – Saket. Case ready.”

I arrived at the court wearing a simple olive-green salwar, my hair tied back. Hitesh arrived with Sarla, his cheeks flushed. Riya didn’t go. When the judge read the temporary order: “No transfer, mortgage, or disposition of any property belonging to us until the case is settled,” Hitesh fell silent. Mrs. Sarla looked at me, her eyes filled with shock and anger.

Leaving the courtroom, she said in a low voice, as if through gritted teeth:

— Daughter, you’re being too cruel. I just want him to be happy. You should go away for a few weeks so the house can… breathe.”

I looked directly at her:

— I want to breathe, but you’ve been suffocating for five years.

She fell silent, then turned away.

That night, I received a call from an unknown number. A young man’s voice, hoarse and hurried:

— Is that An? This is Shiv, Riya’s old roommate in Vasant Kunj. You should be careful. He… is not what you think. She’s asking Hitesh to transfer a studio in Gurugram to his name to “save his honor.” She told me there was a recording of her mother saying, “Throw your daughter-in-law out of the house.”

I held the phone until my hand went numb.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because… when she moved out two months ago, she didn’t pay the rent. And… you don’t seem like a bad person.”

I hung up and sat there silently. Only then did I understand why the ₹20 lakh was so easily obtained: Mrs. Sarla thought that money could buy silence.

The next morning, Arjun said, “We’ll ask the court to record that all the time transfer negotiations while you were “traveling” were fraudulent transactions, without your consent.”

“And the recording?” I asked.

“If there is, that would be even better. That would make the motive for ousting you from the family clear, not an ‘amicable separation.’”

I started gathering evidence. My media friend, Anika, from Hauz Khas, helped me “clear” all the documents: phone bills, remaining plane tickets, taxi receipts, and the neighbor’s CCTV footage of the day I sneaked back into the house: the door opening, laughter, the shadow of a woman leaning lightly on Hitesh’s shoulder. Small details were enough to paint the whole picture.

One afternoon, I was scrambling eggs when Mrs. Sarla came in. She stood at the door, her eyes deep:
— Can you come outside with me to talk?

I wiped my hands and nodded. We sat at the tea stall at the end of the street, the smell of coal smoke and hanging cards lingering in the air.

She placed a small velvet bag in front of me. Gold—something Bangles and a heavy necklace.

—I wanted to apologize. I… gave you some of my gold. I gave you ₹20 lakh that day because I was afraid you’d create a ruckus and bring shame to the family. Mom…
Her voice trailed off.

—Mom is also afraid of being alone. Hitesh’s father died early. Mom clung to him as if she had nothing left. Riya said that if she married Hitesh, she’d have someone to take care of her and support her. Mom believed her—foolishly.

My throat choked.

—Mom doesn’t need gold to atone for her mistake. I want the truth.

—The truth is… you’re right. She doesn’t love Riya. She’s just weak—and greedy for favors. Mom prodded her.

She looked at her hands, which were covered with brown spots.

—If you want, I I’ll testify.

I put the velvet bag back, pulling her hand towards me:
—I don’t need to sleep. I just want you to stop lying—not even to yourself.

She burst into tears. For the first time, I saw a mother—not a “mother-in-law.”

News spread quickly: Riya had asked Hitesh to go to Sohna Road to “finalize” the studio transfer. Arjun advised me not to go. But I wanted to see for myself. I stood in the cafe opposite, by the glass, and saw Riya smiling brightly. She held the phone close to Hitesh’s mouth and whispered:

“You should “deal” with your wife, then we’ll register. That’s what your mother said.”

The cafe door opened. Two municipal officials, accompanied by a bailiff, entered and read out court notices: a restraining order and a summons for confirmation of fraud. Riya stood, her face pale. Hitesh lost his temper, looking around for someone to defend him. I stood outside, not moving—but Riya saw me. Her eyes changed color, like a cat trapped in a corner.

That night, Hitesh called me for the first time since leaving home.

“And… don’t make a fuss. You… you’re wrong. But your career…”
I pursed my lips:

“Your career isn’t a license to trample on others.”

“What do you want?”

“Freedom—complete.” Transparency—down to the last penny. And respect—late, but necessary.

A long silence fell on the other end of the line.

—Okay. I’ll have my lawyer speak to me tomorrow.

—No “behind-the-scenes discussions.” Everything in court.

At the next hearing, Mrs. Sarla brought a handwritten letter. She asked for permission to submit it. In the letter, she mentioned the ₹20 lakh case, how she had urged her son to “find someone new” to escape the “dark” home, and how Rhea had instilled in him a fear of being alone. No fancy words, just short, blunt sentences, but honest.

The judge looked at her:
—Do you understand what you’re doing?

She tightened her grip on her sari:
—I understand. It’s my fault. My daughter-in-law… doesn’t deserve this.

I turned, just enough time to whisper:
—Thank you, Mom.

She smiled—a worn-out but relieved smile.

The court recorded her testimony, extended the “status quo” order, and ordered final mediation before the divorce trial.

In the mediation room, Hitesh stared at me for a long time.

—I can’t think of anything but an apology. If… if you agree not to ask for the studio, I’ll give you all this year’s dividends, and sign the property division agreement as you propose.

I looked at Arjun. He nodded slightly.

—I don’t want anything in his name. I want cash, and the right to what’s mine. I also want to put an end to all your cunning tricks.

— I agree.

Riya didn’t come. Later I found out she’d left Delhi and cut off all contact.

One morning during the rainy season, I brought a cake to give to some elderly people who practiced yoga in Lodhi Garden. The sky was drizzling, the fallen leaves were wet like soft broken glass. Mrs. Sarla called out:

— Are you free? I want to go to Buy N for tea.

— Yes.

She sat on an old wooden chair, sipping my masala tea. She looked at the Polaroid photos of regular customers hanging on the wall, in the handmade cake cabinet.

— Will you… return me the ₹20 lakh?

I smiled:

— I’ll pay it back—in a different way. I’ll give you free tea for life.

She laughed out loud, wiping the corners of her eyes:

— Okay. I exchanged ₹20 lakh for a lifetime of tea—it was worth it.

Then she became serious:

— Can you forgive me?

I was silent for a moment. Forgiveness isn’t a snap of a finger. It’s a long haul, as Arjun had said.

— I can’t forget, but I don’t want to be angry. Mom… next time, if you’re scared, tell me directly. I don’t want to be a stranger in a house just because the elders are quiet.

She nodded, her eyes moistening.

— I’ll be fine, An.

— I’m fine.

A few weeks later, I received the final settlement. The divorce was finalized, the property was divided as proposed, and I owed no one anything except Hitesh’s handwritten apology: “Thank you for leaving when you could have started anew.”

I folded the paper and put it in a drawer, next to the recipe I’d written: “Saffron-Pistachio Loaf — 180°C — 38 minutes.” In the afternoon, Anika stopped by and asked me to start an online bakery. I smiled:
—Okay. Let’s take another long way.

At night, it rained. I opened the window, allowing the scent of petrichor soil to fill the small room. Delhi was still noisy, still muddy, still had too many lights and too few stars. But in a small corner of the city, I lit a lamp for myself: not bright, not ostentatious—just warm enough so I wasn’t afraid of the dark.

And I know, the third part of my life will begin not with a thick envelope, but with flour-stained hands, a hot kettle of tea and a heart that has learned to say “no” at the right time.