Arjun and I have been married for over a year. Our married life is quiet—except for one thing: the strange behavior of my mother-in-law, Shanti.
Every night, exactly at 3:00 a.m., she knocks on our door. It’s not loud—three soft knock-knock-knock—but enough to wake me. At first, I thought she was confused about her room or needed something. But when I opened the door, the hallway of our Delhi home was dark and empty.
Arjun told me not to give it importance, that his mother often wandered around because of insomnia. But the disturbing regularity of it filled me with suspicion.
After a month of unease, I set up a small camera in front of our door. I didn’t tell Arjun, worried he’d think I was exaggerating.
That night, at exactly 3:00 a.m., the knocking came again. I pretended to sleep, my heart pounding.
In the morning, I checked the camera. What we saw left me speechless. Shanti, dressed in a white nightgown, stepped out of her room, walked to our door, looked around blankly as if she saw nothing, and knocked three times. After that, she didn’t leave. She stood there, motionless, for nearly ten minutes, staring at the door, as though her cold pupils wanted to pierce through the lock. Then she quietly disappeared from the frame.
I turned to Arjun. His face was pale.
“You know something, don’t you?” I asked.
At last, with a trembling voice, he sighed:
“Mother doesn’t want to disturb us. She has her reasons.”
But he said no more. Furious, I told him I would ask her directly.
Inside her room, I confronted Shanti. I told her about the camera, the video—everything. I asked bluntly:
“Why do you knock on our door every night? Why do you stand there?”
She set down her teacup. Her cold eyes pierced through me.
“What do you think I’m doing?” she said in a voice so deep it made me shiver.
Then she stood up and left me trembling.
That night, I reviewed more footage. I discovered something even worse: after knocking, she would take a small key from her pocket and place it in the lock. She didn’t turn it—just left it there for a few seconds, then removed it and walked away.
The next morning, I checked Arjun’s drawer. I found an old notebook with handwriting inside:
“Mother wanders at night. She says she hears noises in the house, but there’s nothing. Don’t worry, but I’m afraid she’s hiding something.”
When confronted, Arjun confessed: after his father’s death, his mother developed obsessive-compulsive disorder. She always thought someone was breaking in, so she checked the doors—even ours. Lately, though, she had begun whispering disturbing phrases: ‘Arjun must be protected from her.’
A cold fear struck me: if one day she were to turn the key and come inside, what would I do?
I told Arjun to take her to a psychiatrist or I would leave the house. He agreed, though I could still see in his eyes that he was hiding something.
We brought her to a psychiatrist in New Delhi. Shanti stood motionless, staring blankly. The doctor listened to our descriptions: the knocks, the stares, the whispers.
She remained silent until she murmured,
“I have to keep watch… He’ll come back… I can’t lose my son again.”
Privately, the doctor revealed to us: thirty years ago, in Lucknow, a thief broke into the family home at night. Arjun’s father confronted him and was stabbed to death in front of Shanti. Since then, she has lived in fear that the “intruder” might return.
The doctor explained,
“When the daughter-in-law arrived, she interpreted it as another possible stranger—someone who might take her son away from her. That’s why she whispered, ‘I must protect Arjun from her.’ It isn’t hatred; it is pathological fear.”
I froze. I had thought Shanti wanted to harm me, but in truth, she was trapped in trauma. Arjun cried out, blaming himself for not noticing sooner.
The doctor was clear: long-term therapy, perhaps light medication, but above all, the family’s patience.
That night, Shanti told me,
“I don’t want you to be afraid… I only want my son to be safe.”
For the first time, I felt compassion. I answered, “Mother, you don’t have to knock anymore. No one will harm us—we’re together.”
She wept like a child when she felt understood.
The first days were hard. She still woke some nights, saying she heard footsteps. I had to hold myself back from anger. Arjun would remind me,
“She isn’t an enemy—she’s a victim.”
We built new routines: checking the doors together before bed, installing an electronic lock with an alarm, making chamomile tea, and talking about simple things. At first she stayed quiet, then began sharing small memories. It was a sign she was slowly opening up.
I learned that patience isn’t waiting for someone to change—it’s changing yourself to sustain them.
As months passed, the 3 a.m. knocks faded. Shanti slept more peacefully, smiled more often. The doctor confirmed her progress: the warmth of home was her best medicine.
I realized that healing doesn’t mean “fixing” someone—it means walking through the darkness together. Shanti learned to trust again, Arjun learned to speak openly, and I learned compassion.
Some wounds never fully heal, but when cared for within a family, bonds grow stronger.