After Reading the Messages on My Husband’s Phone, I Finally Understood Why My Biological Mother Never Came to Visit Me at My Husband’s Home—And I Was Left Bitterly Hurt…

From the day I became a daughter-in-law in my husband’s family in Jaipur, one thing had always bothered me: my biological mother, who lived in Lucknow, rarely ever came to visit. Whenever I begged her to, she would make excuses: “I need to take care of the mango orchard at home right now,” “Traveling back and forth makes my back ache,” “I’ll do it another day.”

At first, I thought it was nothing serious—perhaps my mother just didn’t want to trouble me, afraid people would say, “She’s too clingy to her daughter.” But over time, her avoidance became more and more obvious.

Once, my husband’s family held a big memorial service. I pleaded with her many times, and my mother reluctantly came. Throughout the entire event, she barely spoke, just sat quietly in a corner, her eyes avoiding everyone. When I bid her farewell, she clutched my hand tightly and whispered: “Just live a good life. Don’t let anyone hate you.” At the time, I thought she was worrying too much. Who would have imagined that behind those words was a truth that would one day break me?

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

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

The saved contact name stunned me: “Mother-in-law.” My hands trembled as I opened the thread. The inbox revealed a long history of conversations: my mother had been messaging my husband repeatedly, begging him not to reveal “the old matter,” promising never to come to our in-laws’ house again. One message read: “I was wrong. I just hope you won’t harm my daughter. I only want her to be safe.”

My vision blurred with tears. So it wasn’t because she was too busy or too shy—my mother was avoiding me because there was a secret in the past between her and my husband.

When I confronted my husband, he stayed silent. The more silent he was, the more fear crept into me. My mind spun: why would my husband and mother share a secret? What was that “old story”? Why did my mother have to lower herself so much?

Since that day, I no longer had the courage to invite my mother to Jaipur. I feared her shame, her awkward face, her trembling gestures. And I didn’t dare to dig deeper—because whatever truth I uncovered might stab straight into my heart.

Many nights, lying next to my husband in our apartment, watching rickshaw pullers and passersby through the window, I would turn away, tears soaking my pillow. I felt lost in my marriage, trapped between two rocks: on one side, my mother—who had sacrificed her entire life for me; on the other, my husband—the man I chose to spend my life with. And between them lay an invisible thread I dared not touch.

As a result, I lived in constant torment. I lacked the courage to ask my mother, and I couldn’t bring myself to ask my husband either. Only a vague emptiness remained, forcing me to wonder: On what foundation does my marriage truly stand? And if the truth is ever revealed, will it all collapse? Perhaps I must uncover it myself, because if this continues, I won’t be able to bear it much longer.

That message pierced my chest like a thorn. Since that day, my life has been swallowed in silence, broken only by the hum of the ceiling fan and the blaring horns of rickshaws outside in Jaipur. My husband remained gentle, still asking if I had eaten, but in his eyes I saw a haze—he loved me, yes, but he was also hiding something from me.

On Raksha Bandhan, I brought a box of Lucknow laddus to visit my mother. She opened the door, wearing the same paper-thin smile. I had barely sat down when her phone rang: “Don’t tell her. Please.” The screen flashed “Unknown Number.” My mother looked startled and quickly turned it off. I pretended not to notice, but the ringing was already echoing in my ears.

That night, when my mother went out to throw away the trash, I found an old tin box under her pillow. I hesitated, then opened it. Inside was a faded newspaper clipping: “Motorcycle Accident in Hazratganj. 12-year-old girl did not survive.” Next to it lay a scratched tear-shaped pendant. At the bottom of the box was a piece of paper that read:

“Forgive me.”

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

Mother froze in place, sinking back into her chair as though suddenly out of breath. She gripped my hand tightly: “Don’t ask anymore. Leave the past behind.”

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

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

On the night train back to Jaipur, I couldn’t sleep. When we arrived, a brown envelope was lying at our doorstep. Inside was a photocopy of the same newspaper clipping from the day before… along with 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.”

Beneath the note was a photo of me holding the tin box in Lucknow—someone had been following me.

I had no choice but to face it. That night, as the monsoon brought the smell of wet earth into the house, I placed the envelope before Anant.

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

“Why did your mother beg me not to talk about it? What does ‘talking about it’ mean? Give me the truth, Anant.”

After a long silence, he buried his forehead into his hands. His voice was low and hoarse: “I tried to keep this away from your life. Twelve years ago, in Hazratganj, my sister Anaya was hit by a scooter. I was in my final year at school. By the time we reached the hospital, it was too late. A few days later, the rider vanished. No evidence left behind.”

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

Anant’s bloodshot eyes lifted, and he nodded. “Before our wedding, she came to me and confessed. She said it was an accident—she lost control while rushing a neighbor’s child to the emergency room. She begged me not to call off the marriage. And I… I agreed. On one condition: that she would never set foot in this house again, so I could try to forget and live with you.” He looked at me, frozen. “I thought time would make it easier. But someone knows—and now they’re blackmailing me.”

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

“Because I was afraid our marriage would become a tomb of torture.”

I stayed silent, then looked up and whispered: “I won’t let anyone destroy this family with a filthy envelope. We’ll find the blackmailer. And… I need to hear my mother confess her crime herself.”

The sender bombarded us with UPI messages, each with a deadline. I replied: “Cash. Tomorrow night, Chandpol Bazaar. Just once.”

I asked my journalist friend Meera to hide a small recorder inside my shirt button. Anant didn’t want me to go alone, but I told him: “If you show up, it’ll only make things worse. Let me talk first.” He fell silent, then agreed to watch from afar with a friend who worked at the police station.

That night, Chandpol was crowded and bright with noise and lights. I stood in front of a bangle shop, holding a paper bag. A man in a baseball cap approached: “Where’s the money?”

“First, I need to verify your information,” I said, steadier than I felt.

He smirked and pulled out his phone. On the screen was a photo of my mother on an old scooter, rushing down a rain-slick road. “There’s more. Want your husband’s family to see this?”

“Who are you?”

“Mukesh. Mechanic from Hazratganj. I saw everything that year. She paid me 5,000 rupees to stay quiet. But prices go up, you know.”

I saw Anant clench his fists in the distance. I bought time: “Show me the proof. I’ll check and return.”

Mukesh laughed, but just as he handed over the phone, someone lunged from behind and snatched it. He elbowed back, the phone crashed to the ground, screen shattering. He bolted into the alley. I chased him, strings of hanging lights slapping my face as the crowd roared. At the end of the lane, just as Mukesh tried to vault the wall, Anant intercepted him. They grappled, fists flying. I screamed, and the police rushed in.

Mukesh’s hands were tied. From his broken phone, Meera managed to extract a small memory card. Her face paled.

At the station, Mukesh confessed: he used to work as a mechanic near the bazaar. He witnessed the accident and fled. My mother had been so terrified she barely had time to put the injured girl into a taxi. Later, that girl died. Months ago, Mukesh saw Anant’s wedding photo in a newspaper and recognized him. He tracked down my mother, reminded her of the old event, secretly filmed her with a hidden camera, followed her to Jaipur, took photos, and blackmailed her.

I sat beside Anant, clutching his coat. The police asked if he wanted to pursue the case to the end. He stared 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: “Mother, I need to hear it from you.”

She led us into the narrow kitchen, a kettle hissing on the stove. She told us everything: how that rainy year, she was riding a borrowed scooter to the market when she saw a fainting child by the roadside. Panicked, she tried to rush the child to the hospital, but on the slippery turn, she struck another girl crossing the street. Trembling, she stopped, hailed a taxi, and begged the driver to take the girl to the hospital. “I stayed until the doctor said it was difficult… then I fled. I had no license. I was raising a child alone. I was wrong. I was a coward.” Her voice grew heavy. “Years later, when I discovered that your husband was her brother, I wanted to tell you. But I was terrified of losing you.”

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

The next morning, we went to the Hanuman temple near the Gomti River. My mother brought along the scratched pendant she said she had found on the pavement that day, keeping it all these years as self-punishment. Kneeling before the altar, she placed it on a bronze plate: “I admit my fault. I am ready to pay compensation, to accept whatever the law requires. I only hope my daughter will not be condemned.”

Anant bent down and picked up the pendant. “It’s exactly like Anaya’s. She never got it back that day. Maybe it fell while she was being rushed to the hospital.” He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. “I’ll speak to my parents. We’ll file the report, settle the civil claim. But most importantly, we’ll build a small library in Anaya’s name at the hospital where she died. That way, this pain won’t be wasted.”

Mother bowed her head and wept. I embraced her—for the first time in months, the hug no longer felt like a burden, but a new promise.

On the train back to Jaipur, Anant clasped my hand. “I thought keeping this secret would save our marriage. But now I know—only the truth can save us.” I leaned against his shoulder, fields of sugarcane retreating behind us, the skies clearing after the rain.

But the story was not yet over. Mukesh had revealed there was someone behind him—someone who had given him the address, sent the advance payment. A woman. Her name had just surfaced in the file: Riya Malhotra… an old classmate who had secretly loved Anant.

I looked at Anant. He squeezed my hand tighter. “The waves may not have calmed yet,” he said. “But this time, we’ll face them together.”