I went abroad for work, but my husband was living a married life at home with my sister. When I returned, she was three months pregnant. The truth behind this shattered me…
The day I landed at Delhi Airport after working in Dubai for more than three years, my heart was full of joy: finally, I could return to my family, reunite with my husband and relatives after being away from home for so many years. I had saved every penny and sent my husband to build a new, big house in Lucknow, thinking that when I returned, we would start a better life together.
But the moment I stepped inside the house, something felt wrong. My sister—Sita, whom I trusted completely, who was supposed to help take care of things with my husband while I was away—suddenly avoided my gaze. And my husband—Arjun—looked ashamed, unable to look me in the eye.
That night, when everyone was asleep, I heard crying from her room. Feeling uneasy, I quietly opened the door and went in—and was shocked.
My sister’s belly was already showing… she was clearly pregnant.
I started trembling, my voice cracking:
“—Sister… whose child is in your womb?”
Sita broke down sobbing. Arjun fell to his knees in front of me, tears streaming down his face:
“Forgive me… this is all my fault. You and I…”
My heart felt like it had shattered into a hundred pieces. Hearing the news, my mother collapsed. The whole village buzzed with gossip—after working abroad, I had returned only to lose both my husband and my sister. I didn’t know whom to blame more: the husband who betrayed me, or the sister who stabbed me in the back.
I shouted in despair:
“You both… have killed me!”
The air in the house turned heavy. Sita clutched her belly, sobbing, Arjun hung his head silently, and I—stood there, in the middle of the home I had built with my sweat and tears for the past three years, now feeling like a stranger.
The bad news spread quickly through the family. My father—Mr. Mahesh—called everyone to discuss the situation. My mother—Mrs. Kamla—sat there, holding her head and crying, her face weary. The atmosphere was like a storm.
Mr. Mahesh banged on the table in anger, his voice trembling:
“You both have done a terrible thing! How will you face your relatives and neighbors now? What about the honor of this family?”
My mother’s voice choked:
“My children, it’s my fault… I shouldn’t have let your sister stay with Arjun. I never imagined it would come to this…”
Sita clutched her pregnant belly, frightened and distressed. Arjun sat silently, unable to face anyone. The family argued loudly—some said Sita should be forced to abort to avoid shame, others said she shouldn’t harm the child.
I sat in the middle of the room, my heart restless. Every word felt like a knife stabbing me. I cried uncontrollably and shouted:
“Why is everyone only talking about this pregnancy? What about me? I worked abroad for three years to have this life!”
The room fell silent. Mr. Mahesh looked directly at Arjun, his voice cold:
“What do you want? Marry her or keep her? Stop beating around the bush!”
Arjun stammered, trembling:
“I… I’m sorry. I only love my wife, but… this child is mine…”
Sita burst into tears:
“I cannot abort my child! No matter what, this is my baby!”
The house seemed to split apart. Relatives formed groups, arguments broke out, tears and anger filled the air. I stood, my eyes red, my voice as cold as steel:
“If you want to keep the child… then keep my husband too. I have nothing more to say.”
I walked out into the heavy rain. Behind me, I heard my mother’s cries and the chaos of people arguing. With every heavy step, it felt like I was falling into a deep pit—where love, family, and betrayal had merged into a wound that would never heal.
Outside, the skies over Lucknow rumbled with thunder and rain, as if fate itself was screaming.
And I realized—some wounds can kill without a knife.
Five years have passed since that terrifying rainy night in Lucknow.
I—Priya Sharma—left my hometown with an empty heart and broken spirit and moved to Mumbai. I vowed never to return to the place that had buried my youth and trust.
The first days in that unfamiliar city were very hard. I did all kinds of jobs—serving food in restaurants, cleaning offices, selling goods in the market—just to have food and a place to stay. But even in the darkest days, I remembered my mother’s words of disappointment:
“You can lose everything, but never lose yourself.”
I held onto that saying every day.
I got a job at an import-export company. Through hard work and honesty, I gradually earned trust and was sent to study accounting. From a humble employee, I became a financial assistant, then an executive supervisor.
Three years later, a friend and I started a small medical equipment company. It began in a tiny, dark shop, but through hard work and reputation, we opened several branches.
My life had turned a new page.
But whenever I saw couples walking with their children on the street, my heart still ached. I had lost faith in men, and in “family” bonds even more.
Then one day, fate suddenly intervened.
That afternoon, I was inspecting a branch in Lucknow, the city I had vowed never to return to. As the car stopped at the gate of a local hospital, I saw a familiar figure—a thin woman, her shoulders trembling under her old saree.
It was my sister—Sita.
I was stunned. My heart froze with pain.
She saw me too. For a moment, our eyes met—one terrified, the other full of scars.
I was about to turn away, but Sita ran after me, tears streaming down her face:
“Priya… please don’t go. I know I don’t deserve to talk to you, but I… I beg you to help me.”
Behind her was a boy of about four years old—his face strangely resembled Arjun. His eyes, black and innocent, looked at me in wonder.
I asked softly, my voice trembling:
“Is he… your son?”
Sita nodded, then broke down sobbing:
“I’m sorry. Arjun left me and my child. He went to another woman. My husband’s family wouldn’t let me return, calling it karma. Even my mother didn’t accept me. Now there is no place for me or my child to go.”
It felt like the world was spinning.
The person who had betrayed me, who stole my husband… was now standing before me in a desperate state.
I remained silent for a long time, then spoke gently:
“What do you want?”
“I… I just need a job. I don’t have the courage to ask for money, I just want to work to raise my child. Can you help me?”
I looked at the child. His eyes were pure and innocent. At that moment, I realized—anger saves no one.
A few days later, I hired Sita to work at one of my company’s packaging factories in Lucknow. I didn’t tell anyone that she was my real sister.
Sita worked hard, spoke little, and sent money to her mother every month. As for me, though I could never forget completely, the hatred inside me slowly slipped away like sand through my fingers.
One day, I heard that Arjun had been in a car accident and was paralyzed. His second wife had left him, leaving him with only a broken rental room.
The whole village called it karma, but I felt neither happiness nor sadness—I only felt emptiness.
A year later, I returned to the village with two people: my mother and Sita.
The old house, which had weathered many storms, now stood with broken walls and a yard full of weeds.
Arjun lay there, thin and frail, remorse in his eyes as he looked at me.
He trembled and said:
“I… I’m sorry. I don’t deserve to say anything. But if possible, please forgive me so I can die in peace.”
I looked at him for a long time.
“I don’t hate you anymore. What’s the point of hating when everything is gone? But don’t expect me to forget. Everyone must face the consequences of their mistakes—and I am facing them.”
He cried, and I turned away.
The wind blew strongly through the fields, carrying the scent of old earth, as if washing away the bad memories.
Two years later, I established a fund officially called “Surya – Light After the Storm” to help women working away from home, inspired by my own journey.
I help women abandoned by their husbands, women who have been hurt, giving them a chance to rebuild their lives.
Sita still works in my company, raising her son.
And I—Priya—finally found the peace I had once lost.
Because some pain cannot be erased, but it can be transformed into strength.
And forgiveness is sometimes not for others—it is to free yourself.