Pregnant wife dies during childbirth. Her parents-in-law and her lover celebrate until the doctor whispers…
They declared me dead while I was giving birth.
My husband’s mistress wore my wedding sari to celebrate.
My mother-in-law tried to take my newborn and sell my second daughter.
But I wasn’t dead.
I was in a coma.
And I heard every single word.
My name is Ananya Verma, and this is the story of how they tried to bury me alive… and how I came back to destroy them all.
It all began in the delivery room of a private hospital in New Delhi, after sixteen hours of contractions that felt like my body was being torn in half. I was drenched in sweat, shaking, biting into the pillow to keep from screaming. Every breath felt like fire.
“Stay calm, Ananya, you’re doing well,” said Dr. Mehta. “It’s your first baby. Sometimes it takes longer.”
I turned my head, searching for my husband’s hand—Rohit Verma. He was standing in the corner, glued to his phone. He didn’t look at me once. While I screamed in pain, he typed messages.
I wanted to believe he was informing family.
Now I know he wasn’t.
Suddenly, I felt something different—too much warmth between my legs. The nurse looked at the sheets and went pale.
“Doctor!” she shouted. “She’s bleeding heavily!”
The monitor began to scream. Voices overlapped.
“Post-partum hemorrhage!”
“Blood pressure dropping!”
“Prep the OT now!”
The ceiling lights blurred at the edges, like someone dimming my life. The beeping became one long, flat sound.
The last thing I heard before everything went dark was the doctor yelling:
“We’re losing her!”
And Rohit’s voice—cold, emotionless:
“Is the baby okay?”
He didn’t ask about me.
Didn’t beg them to save me.
Only the baby mattered.
Then—darkness.
I don’t know how much time passed.
Then I started hearing things. Wheels rolling. People moving. A sheet pulled over my face. The smell of cotton filled my nose.
“Time of death, 3:47 a.m.,” a tired voice said.
Inside, I screamed.
I’m not dead. I’m here. I’m alive.
But my body wouldn’t move. I couldn’t open my eyes. I was trapped inside myself.
They placed me on cold metal. The morgue slab froze my back, yet my body didn’t react.
I heard the mortuary attendant humming.
Then suddenly—
“Wait…”
Silence.
“I think I feel a pulse. My God—there is a pulse!”
Chaos erupted. Machines. Tubes. Voices. Something forced into my throat.
Then a man’s voice, close to my ear:
“Mrs. Verma, I’m Dr. Kapoor. You’re in what we call locked-in syndrome. A deep coma-like state. You may hear us, but you can’t respond. We’ll keep you alive, but… the chances of waking up are very low.”
Silence.
“How low?” Rohit asked.
“About five percent. She could remain like this for months… years… or never wake up.”
I waited for him to break. To cry. To say do everything.
Instead, he said:
“I need to make some calls.”
And he left.
Soon after, I heard my mother-in-law, Shanta Verma.
“So she’s basically… a vegetable?” she asked casually.
“We don’t use that term,” the doctor replied.
“What I need to know is how long you’ll keep her like this. Every day costs money.”
“After thirty days without improvement, the family can decide about life support.”
“Thirty days,” Shanta repeated. “That’s manageable.”
They left.
And I lay there, terrified.
A few hours later, I heard another familiar voice—Pooja, Rohit’s office assistant. The woman whose messages I had once questioned.
A nurse had accidentally left a baby monitor on.
“This is actually perfect,” Shanta said.
“Perfect?” Rohit replied. “She’s my wife.”
“She’s as good as dead. You have the baby, the insurance money, and Pooja can finally take her place.”
“She’s technically alive…”
“Not for long,” Shanta cut him off. “Hospitals hate coma patients. Expensive. We wait thirty days, then unplug. Clean. Legal.”
“And her parents?”
“I’ll handle them. I’ll tell them she died and was cremated. They live in Jaipur. They won’t know.”
Pooja spoke softly:
“Are you sure, darling?”
“Absolutely,” Shanta said. “You’ll have everything—the house, the husband, the baby.”
I screamed inside my head until it hurt.
On the third day, I learned my baby was a girl.
A nurse whispered to another:
“The grandmother changed the baby’s name. The mother wanted ‘Asha’. She registered her as ‘Riya’. And she won’t let the maternal grandparents visit.”
“And the other woman?”
“The mistress? Acting like the mother. Comes every day. Posts pictures online. Apparently she even wore the patient’s wedding sari for the baby’s welcome party.”
I wanted to vomit.
On day twenty, everything changed.
I heard Dr. Kapoor speaking urgently to Rohit.
“There’s something you weren’t informed about.”
“What now?”
“Your wife delivered twins. Two girls. One had breathing issues and was in NICU. She’s stable now.”
Silence.
“Twins?”
“We tried contacting you, but you told us to handle everything. The second baby doesn’t have a name yet.”
“Don’t tell anyone else,” Rohit snapped.
An hour later, Shanta and Pooja arrived.
“This complicates everything,” Shanta hissed.
“One baby is manageable. Two raise questions.”
“What do we do?” Pooja asked.
After a long pause, Shanta said quietly:
“We give the second one up. Private adoption. I know a couple in Mumbai. They’ll pay cash. No questions.”
“Sell my daughter?” Rohit whispered.
“She’s not a daughter. She’s a problem.”
My heart raced. Alarms went off.
“She’s crying,” a nurse said.
“Reflex,” another replied.
But one nurse wasn’t convinced.
“Call Child Welfare. And security.”
On the night of day twenty-nine, my finger moved.
Then my eyes.
Then my voice.
“My… babies…”
I told the doctors everything.
Every word I’d heard.
The next morning—day thirty—Rohit, Shanta, and Pooja arrived to “pull the plug.”
They opened the door.
I was sitting upright.
“Hello,” I said calmly. “Did your dead woman wake up too early?”
Police stepped in.
Both my daughters were already safe—with my parents.
Months later, in a Delhi courtroom, the verdict was read.
Rohit: 8 years
Shanta: 5 years
Pooja: 3 years
Permanent restraining orders.
My daughters—Aarohi and Diya—slept in my arms.
They tried to erase me.
They forgot one thing:
I am a mother.
And mothers don’t stay buried.
We rise.