His wife lay burning with a 40°C fever, unable to cook—so he slapped her without hesitation. Moments later, she signed the divorce papers… but what happened next shocked everyone…
In her in-laws’ eyes, I was “a mouse in a jar of rice.” Thaan—my husband—was the head of the sales department in a big Mumbai company, earning over ₹3 lakh a month, while I was just a housewife who occasionally wrote nonsense online. My mother-in-law, Mrs. Phan, always looked at me with half-disdain. She often said:
“This family is lucky to have you, otherwise you’d be eating dirt.”
I endured everything. I endured it because I loved Thaan, and because I had a secret I couldn’t reveal.
That day, heavy rain was pouring. I returned home from the supermarket drenched. By afternoon, my body felt burning hot, and my head throbbed violently. I checked my temperature: 104°F (~40°C). My whole body was shivering, and even with two blankets, I felt cold. I couldn’t drag myself to the kitchen, so I lay on the sofa and texted Thaan:
“Honey, I have a high fever. Please come home with some porridge. I can’t cook today.”
Two hours passed with no reply. At 7 p.m., the door opened. Thaan came in, reeking of alcohol, and behind him was my mother-in-law, fresh from her yoga class. Seeing the darkness and the cold kitchen, Thaan shouted:
– “Nagan! What are you doing, not cooking at this hour? Do you want me and my mother to starve?”
I tried to speak, my voice heavy:
– “Honey… I texted you. I have 40-degree fever, I can’t get up…”
Thaan rushed over and ripped the blanket off me:
– “What fever? I saw you at the supermarket this afternoon! Faking illness to avoid housework again? What a lazy woman, dependent on her husband and yet acting young!”
Mrs. Phan stood nearby, pouring fuel on the fire:
– “See? I told you, if you marry, marry a capable woman. Bringing her here is just rice and food wasted. You can’t even cook a bowl of rice.”
I felt a surge of anger and burst into tears:
– “Look at me! My body is burning, and you call it acting? Do you see me as a servant or a wife?”
A slap landed on my cheek. Thaan pointed at my face, his eyes glaring:
– “How dare you argue with my mother? You live well here, but complain about cooking. If you can’t cook, leave!”
The fever seemed to vanish, replaced by a cold, terrifying calm. I sat up, wiped blood from the corner of my lips, and stopped crying. Silently, I went to the bedroom, opened a drawer, and pulled out divorce papers I had signed long ago. I threw the application on the coffee table, in front of Thaan and Mrs. Phan:
– “Fine, I’m leaving. Sign it.”
Thaan looked at the papers and laughed mockingly:
– “Oh, trying to scare me again? Do you think leaving me will save you?”
Mrs. Phan placed her hands on her hips, her voice bitter:
– “Scaring whom? My son bought this apartment, my son earned this money. Leave this house, without a job, without money, begging! Don’t get so arrogant. Apologize to Thaan and go make noodles.”
They thought I would be afraid. They thought I would kneel and beg like always. But I didn’t. I picked up the phone and dialed a number:
– “Hello, Mr. Hung? Send someone to Apartment B1206, Powai, Mumbai. I want to take the house back tonight. Yes, remove all unauthorized people.”
Thaan grimaced:
– “Who are you calling? Are you crazy?”
I smiled, a smile that made shivers run down his spine:
– “Mr. Thaan, you’ve always been proud of your ₹3 lakh salary. But did you forget who the president of your company is?”
Thaan was stunned:
– “President… Mr. David Mehta… so what?”
– “David Mehta is my father’s English name,” I said each word clearly.
– “And this apartment… do you think your ₹3 lakh salary could buy it? My father bought this for me as dowry, but I put it in your name to save your pride. You weren’t supporting me; in fact, my father was depositing the monthly dividend into your card under ‘sales bonus’ to give me.”
Mrs. Phan’s mouth dropped open, her hand knocked over a fan. Thaan turned pale, stammering:
– “You… you’re lying! You’re just a lousy writer…”
I threw the stack of ownership documents and bank statements on the table. The apartment was mine: Leela Mehta (my full name).
– “I write for passion. My main job is managing the family’s investment fund. I pretended to be poor, endured life as a housewife, searching for someone who truly loved me. But I was wrong. You are not worthy.”
At that moment, the doorbell rang. Two tall security guards and a lawyer entered. The lawyer bowed and said:
– “Madam, the car is ready. How should we handle these two?”
I pointed to the door:
– “Please escort them out. This is my home. They are trespassing illegally.”
Thaan fell to his knees, sobbing:
– “Wife! I was wrong! I was so angry, I lost my mind. Please forgive me. I swear I will never hit you again. Mom… mom, say something!”
Mrs. Phan trembled:
– “Leela… no, daughter-in-law. I’m old, how could you send me out in the rain?”
I looked at them, feeling no pity:
– “Didn’t you just tell me to go out and beg? Now I’ll give you that ‘opportunity.’ Don’t worry, I’ve paid for your cheap hotel room tonight. Tomorrow, Thaan will resign from his job.”
I picked up my suitcase and walked out, leaving my unfaithful husband and greedy mother-in-law screaming behind me. The security guards firmly told them to leave the luxurious apartment they thought they owned.
The fever was still there, but my steps felt light. I took a taxi back to my parents’ villa in Pune. The next morning, I received a text from Thaan, pleading for me to return. I replied with a screenshot of his bank balance—an amount he had never even dreamed of—and wrote:
– “The price of yesterday’s slap was your career and the roof over your head. Goodbye.”