The elderly mother was pushed out of the kitchen by her daughter-in-law, and a week later, shocking news left the entire family stunned…
Mrs. Shanta Devi, with her silky white hair and back bent under the weight of time and life, sat quietly on a worn charpoy (cot) in the cramped kitchen. The aroma of spices from the simmering lentils, the clatter of knives and chopping boards as her daughter-in-law cooked dinner, and the laughter of her son and his wife echoing from the living room—all blended into a familiar picture of a home passed down through generations. She had spent nearly her entire life here, watching generations grow up and flourish.
Now, at almost eighty years old, she lived with her eldest son and his wife, Rajiv and Pooja, along with two grandchildren.
Since moving in with her son, Miss Shanta Devi’s life had never been the same. Rajiv was gentle but weak, always yielding to his wife. Pooja was clever and resourceful, yet somewhat calculating and refined. Shanta Devi never complained. She believed that having a place to stay and receive her children’s blessings in her old age was a blessing in itself. She told herself to live simply and not trouble her children or grandchildren.
The kitchen was her sanctuary. That worn cot, where she would lie down every afternoon after a long day, was like a close friend. In the noisy household, it was the only place where she felt a little alone.
One morning, as Shanta Devi basked in the sun in the courtyard, Pooja came into the kitchen and glanced irritably at the cot:
“Mom, this cot takes up too much space. The kitchen looks cramped. And it’s so old—let’s remove it and make the kitchen bigger.” Her voice wasn’t asking for permission—it was a declaration.
Shanta Devi paused. Her thin hand trembled as she held her cup of tea. She looked at Pooja, her eyes hesitant, wanting to say something but swallowing her words.
“Yes, do whatever seems right,” she said in a barely audible voice.
That afternoon, the cot was moved to the veranda. The once-comfortable corner of the kitchen suddenly felt strangely cold. Mrs. Shanta Devi relocated temporarily to a small storage room adjacent to the kitchen, filled with old boxes and cobwebs hanging from the ceiling.
She didn’t complain, only stayed quiet. Each time she cooked, she worked diligently, then retreated to her small corner, leaving the meals for her children and grandchildren. Rajiv looked at her a few times with pity in his eyes, but whenever he saw Pooja frown, he would turn away.
A week later, early Sunday morning, the doorbell rang repeatedly.
Pooja opened the door and saw a man in a black suit, wearing glasses and carrying a briefcase:
“Good morning. I am Lawyer Vikram Mehta—the legal representative of Shanta Devi’s late brother, Mr. Prakash Sharma.”
Pooja froze. “Late brother? But… my mother said he passed away long ago…”
The lawyer spoke gently:
“He passed away just last week in Sydney, Australia. Before he died, he left a will. Accordingly, all his property—including three houses and a large farmland valued at approximately 23 million pesos—has been bequeathed to his sister, Mrs. Shanta Devi.”
Time seemed to stop. Rajiv dropped his glass. The grandchildren were stunned. Pooja’s jaw dropped, her face pale.
The lawyer continued:
“We tried contacting him by mail and phone, but there was no response. Upon inquiry, we discovered that she was living at this very address, and her care was not adequate.”
His eyes swept over the bewildered faces of the family.
That afternoon, the entire family quietly entered the storage room, where Shanta Devi was knitting for her grandson.
Pooja whispered:
“Mom… I’m sorry about the cot. Why don’t you come back inside? I’ll clean up the space for you.”
Shanta Devi looked up, her eyes calm and deep. She asked nothing about the inheritance, sought no apology. She only said softly:
“The house doesn’t have to be big; there just needs to be space for each other.”
The story of the elderly mother being pushed out of the kitchen, only to suddenly inherit a vast estate, spread quickly throughout the neighborhood in Manila. But Shanta Devi didn’t care. She didn’t need the money—she only longed for a small space in the hearts of her children, a place she once thought she no longer had.