Like every other trip, Meera was carefully packing her husband’s suitcase. She folded each shirt perfectly, placed his socks in neat pairs, and smoothed out every wrinkle.

But when she reached into the back of the wardrobe to grab his pajamas, her hand stopped.

There it was—hidden between layers of clothes—a pair of red lace underwear.
Thin. Bold. Unmistakably not hers.
And clearly not a mistake.

No yelling.
No accusations.
She just gave a cold smile.

Then she quietly opened a drawer, pulled out a small bottle of extra-strength peppermint oil—the same one she once used to chase away rats—and gently rubbed it into the lace fabric.

Her husband, Raghav, had a severe allergy to mint oil. Every time he came into contact with it, his skin would break out in painful rashes and unbearable itching.

Two days later.

Just after lunch, her phone wouldn’t stop ringing.

The moment she picked up, Raghav’s panicked voice burst through:

“Meera! Please help me—don’t be mad, don’t hang up! I… I’m covered in rashes, it burns like hell… I just tried on the underwear, nothing else happened, I swear! But now it’s all red and blistering, I had to go to the hospital. The doctor asked where I got it from—I couldn’t even answer. Please… forgive me!”

Meera paused for a moment. Then calmly replied:

“Oh? But darling… wasn’t that underwear something you packed into the suitcase?
Why are you calling me about it?”

On the other end, Raghav fell silent.

Meera smiled gently, then ended the call.

No screaming. No drama.

Because sometimes, silence is the loudest slap.