Reading the messages on my husband’s phone, I finally understood why my biological mother never visited me at my husband’s house. The bitterness in my heart was overwhelming…

Since the day I became a daughter-in-law in my husband’s family in Jaipur, one thing had always troubled me: my mother, living in Lucknow, rarely came to see me. Whenever I begged her, she’d make excuses—“I have to look after the mango orchard at home,” “Traveling such a distance exhausts my back,” “I’ll come another day.” At first, I thought it was normal: maybe she was afraid of bothering me, afraid people would say, “She can’t let go of her daughter.” But as time went by, her avoidance grew more obvious.

Once, my husband’s family organized a large memorial ceremony. I pleaded with my mother, and she reluctantly agreed to come. Throughout the event, she barely spoke, sitting quietly in a corner, her eyes avoiding everyone. When I said goodbye, she gripped my hand tightly and whispered, “Just live a good life. Never let anyone make you feel hated.” At the time, I thought she was just being overly anxious. Who could have guessed that her words hid a truth that would one day break me?

One night, while cleaning the living room, my husband’s phone rang. A message flashed on the screen from an unknown number:

“Don’t worry. I will never set foot in that house. I just hope my daughter is safe.”

The name saved in the phone stunned me: “Nani.” With trembling hands, I opened the inbox. There were months of messages—my mother had been pleading with my husband not to reveal “the old story,” promising she would never visit again. In one message, she wrote: “I was wrong. I just hope you never hurt my daughter. I only want her to be safe.”

My vision blurred with tears. My mother hadn’t been avoiding me because she was busy or shy, but because there was a secret between her and my husband—a shadow from the past. When I asked my husband, he remained silent. The more he refused to speak, the more terrified I became. My mind raced: Why did my mother and husband have something to hide? What was this “old story”? Why had my mother humbled herself so much?

After that day, I no longer had the courage to invite my mother to Jaipur. I was afraid of her shame, her awkward expressions and gestures. I couldn’t bring myself to dig deeper, fearing that any truth uncovered would stab at my heart.

Many nights, lying next to my husband in our apartment, watching the street outside and the rickshaw drivers pass by, I would turn away, my tears soaking the pillow. Lost in my marriage, I felt caught between two rocks: on one side, my mother—who had sacrificed her entire life for me; on the other, my husband—whom I had chosen to be with. And between them, an invisible thread I didn’t dare touch.

As a result, I lived in constant pain. I didn’t have the courage to ask my mother, nor my husband. All that remained was a vague emptiness, forcing me to question: What foundation was my marriage built on, and would it shatter if the truth ever came out? Maybe I’d have to find out for myself, because if things continued like this, I couldn’t bear it any longer.

That message pricked my heart like a thorn. Since that day, I lived in long silences, hearing only the sound of the ceiling fan and the distant horns of rickshaws outside Jaipur. My husband was still gentle, still asked if I’d eaten, but I saw a mist in his eyes: he loved me, yet he was hiding something.

On Raksha Bandhan, I took a box of Lucknow sweets to visit my mother. She opened the door, her smile as thin as paper. I hadn’t even sat down when her phone rang: “Don’t tell them. Please.” The screen was about to flash “Unknown Number.” My mother seemed startled and quickly switched off her phone. I pretended I hadn’t seen it, but a bell was already ringing in my mind.

That night, when my mother went out to take out the trash, I found an old tin box under her pillow. Hesitating, I opened it. Inside was a faded newspaper clipping: “Motorcycle accident in Hazratganj. 12-year-old girl did not survive.” Next to it was a scratched, tear-shaped pendant. At the bottom of the box, on a scrap of paper, was written: “Forgive me.”

I trembled. “Mom, what is this?” I asked when she returned.

She stood still, sinking back into her chair as if her breath had suddenly left her. She grabbed my hand. “Don’t ask anymore. Leave the past behind.”

“What does the past have to do with infinity?”

She squeezed my hand. “Please,” was all she said.

On the night train back to Jaipur, I couldn’t sleep. When we arrived, there was a brown envelope at the door. Inside was a photocopy of the newspaper clipping from the previous day… and a note written in felt-tip pen: “If you don’t want the real name of the person responsible for the accident sent to your husband’s family, transfer 1 million rupees to this UPI account.” Below was a photo of me holding the tin box in Lucknow—someone had been following me.

I had no choice but to confront it. That night, as the monsoon brought the scent of damp earth into our home, I placed the envelope in front of Anant.

He looked at it, his shoulders trembling slightly. “Who gave this to you?”

“Why did your mother beg me not to talk about ‘this’? What does ‘talking about this’ mean? Tell me, Anant.”

After a long silence, he rested his forehead on his hands. “I tried to keep it away from your life.” His voice was low and hoarse. “Twelve years ago, in Hazratganj, my sister Anaya was hit by a scooter. I was in my final year, and I got to the hospital too late. A few days later, the person who hit her disappeared. No evidence.”

My hands went cold. “That person… was it your mother?”

Anant nodded, his eyes red. “Before our wedding, she came to me and confessed. She said it was an accident—she lost control of her car while rushing a neighbor’s child to the emergency room. She begged me not to break off the marriage. I… I agreed, on the condition that she never set foot in this house again, so I could forget and live with you.” He looked at me, frozen. “I thought it would get easier with time. But someone knows and is blackmailing me.”

I clutched my chest, feeling the ground slip away beneath my feet. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I was afraid our marriage would become a grave of torment.”

I was silent. But then I looked up and said softly, “I won’t let anyone tear this family apart with a cheap envelope. We’ll find the blackmailer. And… I need my mother to confess her crime.”

The sender kept messaging, demanding UPI transfers with a deadline. “Cash,” I replied. “Tomorrow night, Chandpole Bazaar. Just once.”

I asked my reporter friend Meera to hide a tiny tape recorder in my shirt button. Anant didn’t want me to go alone, but I insisted, “If you’re there, it’ll only make things worse. Let me talk first.” He fell silent, then agreed to watch from afar with his friend from the police station.

At night, Chandpole was bustling and bright. I stood in front of a bangle shop, a paper bag in my hand. A man in a baseball cap approached: “Where’s the money?”

“I need to confirm your information,” I said, more calmly than I felt.

He smirked and pulled out his phone: it had a photo of my mother, riding an old scooter on a rain-soaked road. “There’s more. Want your husband’s family to see it?”

“Who are you?”

“Mukesh. The Hazratganj car mechanic. I saw it all that year. She paid me five thousand rupees to keep quiet. But prices have gone up, you know.”

I saw Anant clench his fists from afar. I stalled, “Show me the evidence. I’ll check and pay you back.”

Mukesh laughed, but as he handed me the phone, someone snatched it from behind. He elbowed the thief, the phone fell and the screen shattered. He turned and ran into the alley; I chased after him. Strings of dangling lights hit my face, the crowd roared. At the end of the alley, Mukesh was about to climb the wall when Anant blocked him. They scuffled. I screamed, and the police arrived. Mukesh’s hands were tied. From his broken phone, Meera retrieved a tiny memory card. Her face went pale.

At the station, Mukesh confessed: he used to work as a car mechanic near the market. He saw the accident and ran away. My mother was so frightened, she only had time to put the injured girl in a taxi. Later, that girl died. Months ago, he saw Anant in a wedding announcement and recognized him. He approached my mother, reminded her of the past, secretly filmed her with a small camera, then followed her to Jaipur, took photos, and started blackmailing.

I sat next to Anant, clutching his cold coat. The police asked if he wanted to pursue the case. He looked at me for a long time. “I want the truth. Not ransom for silence.”

We returned to Lucknow. My mother opened the door and saw Anant and me standing there, her face drained of color.

I whispered, “Mom, I need to hear it from you.”

She told me in the narrow kitchen, the kettle whistling on the stove. That year, it was raining; she was driving a borrowed scooter to the market when she saw a little girl fainting by the roadside. Panicking, she rushed her to the hospital, but on the wet road, she turned too fast and hit another girl crossing the lane. She stopped, trembling, called a taxi, and begged the driver to take the girl. “I stayed until the doctor said it was serious. I was terrified… I didn’t have a license, and I was raising a child alone. I was wrong, I was a coward, I ran away.” Her voice grew heavy. “Years later, when I learned your husband was that girl’s brother, I wanted to tell him, but I was afraid of losing you.”

Anant stood up and walked into the courtyard. I followed. He looked at the gray sky, tears streaming down his face. “I wanted to forgive, but every time I thought of Anaya…” He paused. “But last night at the police station, when the officer asked what I wanted, I realized: I don’t want to drag you into a whirlpool of hate. I want a good ending.”

The next morning, we went to the Hanuman temple by the Gomti river. My mother brought the scratched pendant, which she said she found on the pavement that day and kept as a punishment for herself. Kneeling before the altar, she placed the pendant on a bronze plate: “I confess my mistake, I’m ready to pay compensation and do whatever the law requires. I only hope my daughter won’t be blamed.”

Anant bent down and picked up the pendant. “This looks just like Anaya’s. She never found it that day. Maybe… it fell while she was being taken to the hospital.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’ll talk to my parents. We’ll file a report, seek a civil claim. But above all, at the hospital where Anaya died, we’ll build a small library in her name. That way, this pain won’t be wasted.”

My mother bowed her head and wept. I hugged her, and for the first time in months, the embrace felt less like a burden and more like a new promise.

On the train back to Jaipur, Anant took my hand. “I thought this secret would save our marriage. But now I know only truth can save us.” I leaned on his shoulder, sugarcane fields rushing past, the sky clear after the rain.

But the story wasn’t over. Mukesh revealed there was someone else behind the blackmail, someone who gave him my address and sent advance money—a woman. Her name had just appeared in the file: Riya Malhotra… the same old classmate who had secretly loved Anant all along.

I looked at Anant. He squeezed my hand tighter. “Maybe the waves haven’t calmed yet,” he said. “But this time, we’ll face them together.”

(— End of Part 2 —)