I thought I was being a good son, upholding the traditions and respect my family deserved. But in doing so, I became a terrible husband. The night I sent my wife, Anita, to sleep in the cold, dark storeroom for speaking back to my mother, I went to bed feeling justified. I believed I had finally put my foot down and restored order in my home. She had nowhere to go, no money of her own, and a young son to care for. The certainty of her powerlessness was the pillow I rested my head on that night, completely blind to the storm I had created.
The tension hadn’t appeared overnight. Anita had come from a distant city, and from the beginning, my mother, Sharda, viewed her as an outsider. She made countless sacrifices for our family and expected nothing less from the woman I married. Anita tried so hard in the beginning, promising to be a good daughter-in-law and even accepting that she could only see her own parents once a year. But after our son was born, everything changed. My mother had opinions on every aspect of his care, and Anita, exhausted and hormonal, began to push back. I always took my mother’s side, dismissing my wife’s feelings as defiance.
The final argument erupted over a visit from relatives. Our son had been sick with a fever, and Anita had stayed up all night caring for him. In the morning, my mother ordered her to go to the market and cook for the guests. From her bed, Anita whispered a truth I had never allowed myself to hear: “I am your daughter-in-law, not your servant.” The public shame and my mother’s furious glare triggered something primal in me. I saw not my tired wife, but a challenge to my authority that needed to be crushed immediately.
The next morning, the silence from the storeroom was deafening. The door was slightly ajar, and the room was empty. A neighbor told me they had seen Anita, suitcase in hand, crying as she left in a taxi. She mentioned divorce. When I finally reached her on the phone, her voice was not filled with the anger I expected, but with a chilling, steady resolve. She was done, and she was taking our son with her. The divorce papers arrived days later, citing mental cruelty, making our private shame a matter of public record.
Now, the house that was once filled with the sounds of my son is a tomb of my own making. My mother insists Anita is bluffing, but I know the truth. I lost the woman who loved me and the child who looked up to me, all for the sake of a respect that was never truly earned. The weight of my regret is a constant companion, teaching me a lesson too late: that a man’s true duty is to protect the family he builds, not just bow to the one he was born into.
