Slowly, suspicion took root in my heart. Why was he taking the milk? Where was he going? For whom? These questions kept me awake for many nights. One day, I gently asked:
“Listen… the milk I stored yesterday—where did it go?”
He gave me an uneasy smile and said,
“Maybe I accidentally threw it away.”
I didn’t believe him. Something inside me said that something was wrong. The next night, I pretended to sleep and watched his every move. It happened exactly as I had feared. He opened the refrigerator, took several labeled bags, put them into a carry bag, and quietly stepped outside as if afraid of waking us.
My heart was filled with anger and fear. But I didn’t stop him. I decided to find out the truth.
That night, I wrapped myself in a light shawl and left my one-month-old baby with my mother, who had been staying with us for a few days. Then I quietly followed Arjun. The street was empty, lit only by the dim yellow glow of the streetlights. He walked quickly. I followed at a distance, my heart pounding in my chest.
He didn’t turn toward the main road. Instead, he went straight to his mother, Mrs. Kamla Devi’s house, which was only a few houses away in the same neighborhood. I hid behind a tree. The door opened softly. My mother-in-law stepped out. She looked extremely weak—her face pale, her hair disheveled. Arjun handed her the bag. They exchanged a few quiet words and went inside.
I was stunned. All these days… he had been giving my milk to his mother. But why?
Trembling, I moved closer and peered through a narrow opening in the half-open door. What I saw made my soul shudder.
Inside, my sister-in-law—Pooja, my husband’s elder brother’s wife—was sitting in a corner. In her arms was a tiny, red-faced newborn baby. The baby was crying from hunger. Pooja looked pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Kamla Devi quickly warmed the milk and handed the bottle to the baby. The child clutched it desperately and began to drink. Gradually, the crying stopped.
And suddenly, everything made sense. Pooja had given birth prematurely. She was extremely weak and unable to produce enough milk. Their financial condition was poor; they couldn’t afford formula milk. Unable to bear seeing her grandson cry in hunger, my mother-in-law had quietly asked Arjun for help.
Tears filled my eyes. For days, I had been creating painful stories in my mind. I thought Arjun was betraying me or hiding another child. But the truth was a different kind of pain—helplessness.
I quietly returned home. My heart was filled with compassion, but also with a sting of hurt that the truth had been hidden from me.
The next morning, I told Arjun,
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