The first months of pregnancy were hard on me—constant nausea, weakness, sleepless nights. It felt like my whole body was protesting every little thing. But the worst part wasn’t the pain, it was my mother-in-law, who turned my life into torture.
Every morning—reproaches, whispers behind my back, malicious taunts. If I dared to respond even once, she complained to her husband, playing the unfortunate victim, and threatened to kick us out of the house.
That night I barely slept. Tears flowed freely. It was already early morning, when my eyelids began to close, that a familiar hoarse voice rang out in my ear:
“Get up, lazybones! I’m hungry! How long can you lie around like this?”
I shuddered.
“Mom, I feel sick,” I whispered. “I’ve been sick all night.” “
Keep your sores to yourself! Women used to give birth and not complain!” she snapped and walked noisily out of the room.
I got up and made breakfast, but everything inside me sank. In that moment, I realized that she wouldn’t change any other way. And if life didn’t teach her kindness, I’d have to help her…
That night, when everyone was asleep, I turned on a quiet recording on the speaker—barely audible children’s cries, sighs, women’s whispers. I turned the volume down almost to zero, as if the sounds were coming from far away.
The first few minutes were silent. Then I heard the bed creak in the next room. My mother-in-law woke up.
The crying died down, but a moment later it began again—as if coming from the kitchen. The woman stood up, pressed her palms to her chest, and whispered,
“Who’s there?”
There was no answer. Only a light rustling sound and a short knock on the wall.
She didn’t close her eyes until the morning.
“Did you hear anyone talking last night?” she asked over breakfast, her face pale and her eyes red.
I smiled innocently.
“No, Mom. I was reading all night—it was silent. Maybe you dreamed of it?”
The next night, I repeated it all. The crying, the whispering, the knocking. This time, I added a quiet male voice—as if calling her name.
My mother-in-law screamed, crossing herself and whispering prayers. It seemed the entire house was permeated with her fear. Toward morning, she approached me—bewildered, haggard, with trembling hands.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered. “There’s something wrong… in this house…”
I looked at her calmly, almost tenderly.
“Maybe it’s not the house’s fault, Mom. Maybe God just wanted to remind you that anger comes back. Sometimes—even at night.”
Everything changed from then on.
She no longer yelled, woke me up at dawn, or complained to my husband. Now she brought me tea in the mornings, asked how I was feeling, and even helped me cook.
And at night, the house was perfectly quiet.
The voices disappeared… because I turned off the speaker.
