News

I Sent My Parents ₹7,300 Every Month for 6 Years, But When I Asked for a Small Favor, They Said “We’re Busy!” — I Cut Them Off. A Year Later, I Came Back… And Froze at the Gate.

I’m the youngest of two siblings in a traditional Indian family from Nagpur, Maharashtra. Ever since I started working in Mumbai, I made it a point to send ₹7,300 (roughly $88.00 USD) every single month to my parents back home.
It wasn’t a huge sum, but it was consistent. Steady. Six straight years.

Not because they asked for it.
Not because I was the favorite—because I wasn’t. My elder brother, Raghav, was always the golden child. The one who could do no wrong.

I did it out of duty. Out of respect. Out of love.
I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought someday it would come back to me.

A Small Request, A Painful Response

That morning, I had a high fever. I was dizzy, shivering, and needed a check-up at the local BMC clinic near my apartment in Paschim Vihar, Mumbai. My husband was out of town on a business trip to Hyderabad, and our nanny had an emergency and couldn’t come.

My toddler—barely two years old—was crying for attention. I was sweating and too weak to stand.

So, I picked up the phone and called Amma. My mother.
“Amma, can you help me? Just come stay for two hours. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I really need to get checked. Please?”

There was a pause. Then I heard her sigh.
“Beta, I can’t come. I have too much laundry to do. And anyway, I’m not your babysitter.”

That… broke me.
Something inside me shattered.

I didn’t yell. I didn’t beg. I just said, “Okay.”
And I hung up.

That same day, I made a quiet, bitter decision.

I Stopped Everything

I stopped sending money.
I stopped calling.
I stopped trying.

For years I had never forgotten a single remittance—not even during COVID.
I always adjusted my budget, even skipped my own checkups sometimes—just to make sure my parents got their share. My husband didn’t even know how much I sent. It was between me and them.

And yet, when I needed just two hours, my mother chose to wash clothes instead.

No explanation. No apology. Just a closed door over the phone line.

One Year Later…

My son was now three, healthy, and full of life. My husband and I had bought our own small flat. We were doing okay.

I hadn’t spoken to my parents in a year. They didn’t call, and I didn’t either. My brother never reached out to check why the money stopped. Not even a message on my birthday.

But then last week, I got a call from a neighbor back in Nagpur.

“Your father had a minor stroke,” she said. “He’s okay now, but… he asks for you.”

I was silent.

The next day, I took the train to Nagpur. It was a quiet ride. My son slept most of the way. I kept staring out the window, wondering how I’d feel seeing them again.

When we arrived, I walked to the gate of our old house. The one I used to save for. The one I thought of every time I skipped dinner to stretch my salary.

And then I froze.

The Gate Was Locked… From the Inside

Not just shut—padlocked.
There were new locks, new paint, and new curtains in the window.

A woman came out of the neighbor’s house. She looked startled.

“Oh… you didn’t know?” she said softly.

“Raghav moved them out months ago. They live with him now. This house… it’s for rent.”

I just stood there.
For some reason, I smiled. Not out of happiness, but out of clarity.

I realized—they’d moved on. Long before I stopped sending money.
Maybe even long before that phone call.

And I Finally Let Go

I left a small envelope in the neighbor’s mailbox.
Inside was a photo of my son, his first drawing, and a note:

“I wish you well. But I am no longer your provider.
I am a mother now, and I must protect my son from the kind of pain you gave me.
I hope one day, you understand.”

Then I turned around, held my boy’s hand, and walked away.

And for the first time in years, I felt free

PART 2: A MIDNIGHT CALL

Three months after I walked away from that locked iron gate in Nagpur, my phone rang.
It was almost 1 a.m.

The caller ID: Raghav bhaiya.

I almost didn’t answer.
But something inside me—perhaps as a daughter, as a sister, as a human—gave in.
I picked up.

His voice was hoarse, trembling.

“Papa… he didn’t make it. Second stroke.”

I said nothing. Not a single tear.
My heart—cold as stone.
Not out of hatred. But because I no longer felt anything.

The man I used to call father… the one I sent money to for six straight years…
When I needed just two hours of help so I could go to the clinic…
He couldn’t give that.

Now, he needed nothing from me. But Raghav did.

“Can you come back for the cremation?” he asked quickly. “You’re still the youngest. You still have a responsibility.”

I gave a bitter smile.
“That responsibility ended the day you changed the lock on the gate.”

Silence.

A FUNERAL WITHOUT AN INVITE

I didn’t go back to Nagpur.
But I sent a white wreath to the funeral. With a small note tucked inside:

“May you rest in peace, Papa.
As for me—I’ve had to learn how to find peace without you.”

Three days later, a handwritten letter arrived at my home in Mumbai.
It was from Amma—my mother.

The paper was yellowed. Her handwriting shaky.

*“My daughter,
I know I was wrong.
I got used to receiving without ever thanking.
That day you called… I really was doing laundry—for Raghav, his wife, his kids.
I was exhausted and didn’t think.

But I never imagined… that losing you would hurt more than losing your father.

If you still have a sliver of love left in your heart,
Let me see your son just once.

I’m sorry.
I miss you every single day.”*

I folded the letter, gently placed it in a drawer.

No anger. No tears. Just silence.

Because I understood:
An apology can’t erase the scar,
but maybe… it can stop the bleeding.

A SMALL STEP TOWARD THE PAST

One month later, I took my son to Nagpur.

I didn’t go to Raghav’s house.
I didn’t visit the old family home.

I went to the small temple near Sitabuldi market, where my mother used to take me during festivals.

I left a message with an old neighbor:

“If Amma wants to see her grandson, tell her to come to the temple this evening.”

And she came.

My mother—older, grayer, more tired than I remembered.
Her hands trembled as she saw me and my little boy. Then she cried.

No blame. No questions. No anger.

Just a hug—wet with tears, trembling, and quiet like the years that passed between us.