A Night of Pride and Blindness
I never thought she would actually leave.
Her parents’ home was five hundred kilometers away, and in Davao, she had no one but me. I told myself she wouldn’t dare go anywhere—she didn’t even have access to our savings.
So I went to bed that night feeling proud, resting my head on a tall pillow beside my mother.

My mother, Sharda Devi, had always seen herself as the ultimate sacrifice for our family. She expected my wife to be quiet, obedient, and grateful.
And I—like the dutiful son I believed myself to be—agreed.
“A wife should just endure a little for the sake of family,” I often told myself. “What’s wrong with that?”

The Beginning of Tension
My wife, Anita, was from another city. We met during our college years in Davao.
When we first talked about marriage, my mother was furious.

“Her family lives too far away,” she said. “It’ll be a burden to visit all the time.”

Anita cried that day but stayed firm.

“Don’t worry,” she told me. “I’ll be a good daughter-in-law. I’ll take care of your family, even if it means I can only visit mine once a year.”

Eventually, after many pleas, my mother agreed. But she never forgot that Anita wasn’t from our town. Every time I wanted to take my wife and our son to visit her parents, my mother would invent an excuse to stop us.

When the Baby Came
Things changed after our first child was born.
Suddenly, every little decision turned into a disagreement.

I kept siding with my mother. “She only wants the best for her grandson,” I said. “Why can’t Anita just follow her advice?”

But Anita refused to be silent. They argued about everything—from what milk to feed the baby to how often he should sleep.
My mother would scream, slam dishes, and then fall “ill” for days.

The last straw came during a family visit. Our baby caught a high fever. My mother pointed her finger at Anita.

“You can’t even take care of my grandson properly? How could you let this happen?”

I agreed with my mother that day. Anita looked at me, her eyes full of pain.

The Argument That Broke Everything
That night, Anita didn’t sleep. She stayed up nursing our sick child.
Exhausted, I went upstairs to sleep beside my parents.

By morning, a few relatives had arrived to visit. My mother handed Anita a thousand rupees.

“Go to the market,” she ordered. “Buy food and cook for our guests.”

I saw the fatigue on Anita’s face. I opened my mouth to speak, but my mother snapped at me.

“If you go instead, people will laugh at you! She’s the daughter-in-law; cooking is her job!”

Anita, still lying on the bed, whispered hoarsely:

“I was awake all night taking care of your grandson. These guests are yours, not mine. I’m your daughter-in-law, not your servant.”

My mother’s eyes widened. The room went silent.
I felt everyone’s eyes on me—embarrassment burning my face.

Furious, I grabbed Anita’s arm and dragged her to the storeroom.

“This time, I have to be strict,” I said coldly. “You’ll learn to respect your elders.”

No mattress. No blanket. Just a dark, empty room.

The Morning After
When I opened the storeroom door the next morning, Anita was gone.

Panic hit me. I ran to tell my mother. She turned pale and called everyone to search.
A neighbor spoke up:

“I saw her last night. She was crying, dragging her suitcase down the street. I gave her some money for a taxi. She said she was going home—she couldn’t take the way you and your mother treated her anymore. She plans to file for divorce.”

My phone slipped from my hand.

When Anita finally answered my call, her voice was steady and cold.

“I’m at my parents’ house. In a few days, I’ll file for divorce. Our son will stay with me, of course. And the property—half of it is mine.”

My heart pounded. I told my mother, hoping she’d help fix it. But she only scoffed.

“She’s bluffing. She won’t dare.”

But deep down, I knew—this time, Anita wasn’t bluffing.