He barely spares a glance in my direction, yet there is a softness in him for Mira. And truly, who would not love her?

My in-laws followed an old, unspoken tradition that quietly folded women like me into their rigid expectations. When I arrived here, I believed I was stepping toward light. I carried small hopes like offerings cupped in my hands. I did not realize that I was walking straight into a storm.

Raghav married me because I never questioned anything. I did not challenge rules or raise my voice. I blended into silence the way dust settles in forgotten corners. To him, that silence became permission. It allowed him to direct every shard of his anger toward me.

I became the container for his frustration, his cruelty, his harshness, and the disappointments he had no other place to put. He assumed I would never push back. I looked composed from the outside, but inside I cracked at the slightest pressure. I was that woman, quiet and breakable and easy to blame.

For a short time, he treated me gently. I mistook those early gestures for affection. We walked through crowded markets and shared conversations about stories and dreams. For a moment I believed the future held color. But the colors drained faster than I expected. Each day dimmed a little more until my world felt cold and flat.

Eventually, Mira and I moved into the small attic room above the kitchen. It was a cramped space meant for storage rather than living. Yet despite its peeling walls and narrow windows, it was the first place where I felt a faint sense of peace. At least there, I could breathe without Raghav's shadow pressing over me.