I punished her by locking her in the shed for defying my mother but at dawn, the truth left me breathless…
I dragged her out of our bedroom and shoved her into the storage room simply because she dared to talk back to my mother. But the next morning, when I opened the door… she was gone. And in that moment, I knew I might have crossed a line there was no coming back from.
I was certain she wouldn’t dare leave.
Her parents live in Jaipur, more than 600 kilometers away. Here in Kochi, where we live, she knows no one except me. She doesn’t even have access to all our household accounts. With that confidence, I slept peacefully—on a thick mattress beside my mother’s room.
My mother, Mrs. Shanti, has always seen herself as a woman of sacrifice—the matriarch who gave up everything for her family. She believed my wife should obey her in all things. And I agreed.
“As a son, it’s my duty to care for my parents,” I told myself. “A woman just needs to adjust a little. What’s so wrong about that?”
My wife, Ananya, is from another city. We met while studying in Kochi. When we spoke about marriage, my mother opposed it from the very beginning.
“Her family lives so far away,” she said sharply. “Every visit will waste money.”
Ananya cried, but she spoke firmly.
“Don’t worry, Ma’am. I’ll be your daughter-in-law and take care of your family. I’ll visit my parents maybe once a year.”
In the end, I begged my mother, and she agreed—reluctantly. But after the wedding, every time I tried to take Ananya and our son to visit her parents, my mother invented some excuse or illness.
When our first child was born, Ananya began to change. There were constant disagreements about how to raise the baby. I kept thinking, My mother only wants what’s best for her grandson—why not listen to her?
But Ananya wouldn’t give in. Sometimes they argued over simple things—whether to give formula or homemade food. My mother would slam utensils, then complain that stress was making her sick.
Things worsened when we stayed at my parents’ house recently. Our baby developed a high fever and had seizures. My mother immediately blamed Ananya.
“Don’t you know how to take care of my grandson? How could you let him fall so ill?”
I believed her. I turned my frustration on my wife. Ananya didn’t even try to hide her exhaustion anymore.
That night, she stayed awake caring for the baby. I, tired from traveling, went to sleep in my parents’ room.
The next morning, relatives arrived unexpectedly. My mother handed Ananya ₹200 and told her to go to the market to buy groceries.
I saw how drained Ananya was. I was about to say something when my mother shouted,
“If I go to the market, people will laugh at you! I was awake all night too. She’s the daughter-in-law—she should handle the kitchen!”
With barely any strength left, Ananya replied,
“I stayed awake all night with your grandson. These guests are yours, not mine. I’m your daughter-in-law, not your servant.”
My mother stared at me, furious. I felt humiliated in front of the relatives. Blinded by anger, I grabbed Ananya by the arm and dragged her into the storage room—no mattress, no blanket.
“I have to be strict so you learn to respect my mother,” I said.
The next morning, when I opened the door…
Ananya was gone.
Panic hit me. My mother started calling relatives frantically. A neighbor finally said,
“I saw her last night—crying, with a suitcase. I gave her money for a taxi to the airport. She said you people treat her like a maid… and that she’s filing for divorce.”
My blood ran cold.
Ananya finally answered my call. Her voice was calm—cold.
“I’m at my parents’ house. I’m filing for divorce in a few days. Our son stays with me. Half the property is mine by law.”
My mother screamed,
“It’s all drama! She won’t dare!”
But I knew.
Ananya was no longer the same woman.
Three days later, a brown envelope arrived. Inside were divorce papers stamped by the Jaipur family court. The reason:
“Mental and emotional cruelty by husband and his family.”
My mother was furious.
“How dare she? A divorced woman brings shame to her family. Leave her! She’ll come back begging.”
But I didn’t feel anger.
I felt fear.
If the divorce went through, I would likely lose custody of my son. Indian law favors the mother when the child is so young.
Relatives from Kerala and Tamil Nadu wouldn’t stop talking.
“Leonard, you were foolish.”
“Locking your wife in a room like that? That’s abuse.”
“Everyone knows now. Who will marry you after this?”
I drowned in shame.
That night, I video-called Ananya. She appeared on the screen with our son sleeping on her chest. Something broke inside me.
“Ananya… let me see him. I miss him.”
She looked straight at me.
“Now you remember your son? And what about me—when you locked me away like garbage? It’s too late, Leo. I’m not coming back.”
The days that followed felt hollow. I couldn’t work. I dreamed of her leaving with our child while I stood helpless.
I finally understood: for two years, I listened only to my mother—never to my wife. I didn’t protect her. I didn’t stand up for her. She gave up everything for me… and I betrayed her.
One morning, my aunt came to me quietly.
“Listen, beta. When a woman files a case, it’s not easy to withdraw. You have two choices: accept it… or beg forgiveness properly. And hurry. This has become a matter of family honor.”
I took a deep breath. My mother. Relatives. Society. All pressing down on me.
But my greatest fear was only one thing:
Never hearing my son call me Papa again.
That night, I stood in the courtyard, staring at the sky, and realized it was time to do what I had never done before.
Stand up to my mother.
And fight to win back my wife and my child.