Chapter 4: The Final Break

The smiles on all four faces vanished in an instant.

Shock, anger, disbelief—all flickered across their faces, as if they’d just witnessed a bad serial twist. For the first time, I saw them realise I wasn’t a pushover.

Rohit barked, "Are you done? Drama again? He’s your son—if you don’t give it to him, who will?"

His voice grew louder, the accusation echoing. “Stop ruining his birthday, Meera.”

Dadi’s words were sharp as a knife: "You must be keeping a lover outside, you village type. Shameless!"

Her usual insult, the word ‘village’ spat like a curse. “Only women like you behave like this.”

I’d heard it all before. In my previous life, every taunt was a stone in my chest. I’d cried alone in the bathroom, but not anymore.

For Kabir’s sake, I endured it all.

I’d told myself, "Bachchon ke liye sab kuch." Ignored my own pain, hoped things would change. It’s the Indian mother’s curse—to endure for everyone but herself.

In the end, my patience became a joke.

They twisted my sacrifices into weakness. I became the punchline, the woman who wouldn’t leave.

Why endure anymore?

Something snapped. My hands stopped shaking, my spine straightened.

"Enough talk—are we getting divorced or not?"

I met Rohit’s eyes. “You wanted this? Let’s finish it.” Even the traffic outside seemed to hush.

Rohit was about to speak, but Kabir jumped up, shouting,

Kabir’s voice cracked, wild. “Get out! Divorce! Dad, divorce her right now!”

"Get lost, old woman! Divorce! Dad, divorce her! It’s just a stupid letter—I don’t believe you can’t get it, Dadi can’t get it!"

He banged his fist on the table, face red. Dadi tried to calm him, but he shoved her away. “I don’t need her!”

He looked like a stranger—nostrils flaring, eyes wild. I remembered when he’d cry if I so much as raised my voice.

He’d always said such things, and Dadi excused him, “Boys are like that.” But I knew better—it was years of poison.

He bragged about Rohit’s job, Dadaji and Dadi’s education. Only I was a diploma-holder from a small town—never good enough, even in silk.

The four of them erased every effort I’d made for him—every tiffin, every maths lesson, every school form. I held onto hope, thinking he’d change with time.

But all I got was a lonely flat and silence.

How pitiful, I thought. My eyes stung. I swore I wouldn’t let that fate repeat itself.

This time, I breathed deep. “Let them believe what they want. I’m done begging.”

I nodded. "Of course, you’re all so capable—you’ll get it."

Rohit and the others shifted, not used to seeing me so calm.

I took a deep breath. "Marital property is split half and half. The child is yours. That’s it."

I went into my room, packed my bags. Sarees, a few bangles, my father’s old watch. It was over.

Outside, Kabir’s voice raged on, but I didn’t stop.

Dadaji and Dadi coddled him, blaming me. Dadi’s syrupy voice: “One day, she’ll pay for what she’s done.” Dadaji: “She’ll come back, don’t worry. No one else will take her in.”

Kabir shouted, "I just don’t want her to be my mum! Can’t she just die!"

The words stabbed me, but I remembered the lonely flat and kept going. My heart ached, but I didn’t turn back.

When I finished packing, silence fell.

Rohit appeared in the doorway, arms folded, smirking. "You’re putting on quite an act. Let’s go—let’s get divorced now."

I pulled out my Aadhaar and marriage certificate. "Let’s go."

His smile faltered. He tried to regain control. "Divorce, huh? Leave with nothing, then."

I laughed. "Oh, so you can’t bear to divorce me—deliberately provoking me to stay?"

He glared, defiant. I stared back, unbroken.

At the family court, I understood why Rohit was so confident.

The corridors buzzed—lawyers, chaiwalas, the peon shouting case numbers. The smell of old files and stale samosas lingered. Rohit had transferred everything to his parents’ names. All I got was less than three lakh rupees.

He signed quickly. The judge barely looked up. I signed too—my signature bold and sure.

Rohit tried to wound me with words, but I only shrugged. "If you don’t touch my feet and beg, I won’t withdraw the application. Just wait to be thrown out in thirty days."

He glanced at my folded hands, expecting me to bend and touch his feet in apology. But I stood tall.

This had happened before—every time, he forced me to apply, then threatened me with the child, making me beg. But not now.

This time, my child’s heart was already lost to me. I gently nudged his knee aside and walked out, bag in hand, dignity intact.

He cursed as I left. “Evil woman!” But I ignored him.

Outside, the sun blazed. I hailed an auto, hands shaking but heart free.

When I returned home, something was off. Dadi’s sharp voice drifted from the living room. Kabir, eyes red, demanded, "Give me the letter, and I’ll let you keep being my mum."

I smiled sadly. "No need to force it—I just won’t be your mum."

Dadi pleaded, waving his thick glasses. "Meera, look how hard the boy worked. Don’t ruin it. If he misses this chance, he’ll have to take board exams and live an ordinary life."

I raised an eyebrow. "You and his dad are so capable—surely you have a way to get the letter?"

They frowned. Kabir looked away, embarrassed.

Rohit blustered. "If you can do it, so can we. But we’re busy. Since you got it, if we don’t use it, you’ll say we hurt your feelings."

Four pairs of eyes stared at the letter. Even the maid paused, broom in hand.

I looked at Kabir’s proud, stubborn eyes, his thick glasses. My heart softened. Maybe this would be my last gift.

I handed him the letter. "From now on, you and I are even."

He snorted, "Stop pretending. Jaldi jao, ice cream bana ke lao, warna sach mein Dad se divorce karwa dunga."

His arrogance was back. I remembered his childhood love for my homemade kulfi, but let him go.

I didn’t answer. I wheeled my suitcases out, the sound echoing in my chest. I passed the neighbour’s drying saree fluttering on the railing, a stray dog dozing under a scooter, the distant beat of a dhol somewhere down the lane.

No one stopped me. Their laughter echoed behind, but as I stepped into the bright Mumbai street, the city’s pulse matched my own. For the first time in years, I was truly free.