Arjun and I had been married for over a year. Our married life had been quiet, except for one thing: the strange habit of my mother-in-law, Shanti.

Every night, at exactly 3 o’clock, she would knock on our door. It wasn’t loud, just three soft “knock-knock-knock,” but they were enough to wake me up. At first I thought that she had confused her room or that she needed something. But when I opened the door, the hallway of the house in Delhi was dark and empty.

Arjun told me not to give it importance, that his mother used to wander around because of insomnia. But that disturbing frequency filled me with suspicion.

After a month of discomfort, I set up a small camera in front of our door. I didn’t tell Arjun anything because he would think I was exaggerating.

That night, at 3 o’clock, the blows again. I pretended to sleep, my heart racing.

The next morning I turned on the camera. What we saw left me speechless. Shanti, in a white nightgown, would come out of her room, walk to our door, look around as if nowhere to see her, and knock three times. After that, he didn’t come back. He stood there, motionless, for nearly ten minutes, watching the door, as if his cold pupils wanted to go through the lock. Then he would silently disappear from the frame.

I turned to Arjun. He was pale.
“You know something, don’t you?” I asked.

At last he sighed, in a trembling voice:
“Mother doesn’t want to disturb us. He has his reasons.

But he said no more. I, furious, announced that I would ask him directly.

In the living room, I spoke with Shanti. I told him about the camera, the video, everything. I asked bluntly,
“Why does she knock on the door every night? Why does she stand there?”

She put down the cup of tea. His icy eyes pierced me:
“What do you think I do?” he said in a voice so deep that I shuddered.

Then he got up and left me trembling.

That night I reviewed more recordings. I discovered something worse: after knocking, I would take a small key out of my pocket and put it in the lock. He didn’t turn it, he just left it for a few seconds and then left.

The next morning I checked Arjun’s drawer. I found an old notebook with a note:

“Mom wanders around at night. He says he hears noises in the house, but there’s nothing. He asks me not to worry, but I’m afraid he’s hiding something.”

Arjun, when discovered, confessed: after the death of his father, his mother developed an obsessive-compulsive disorder. I thought there was always an intruder, so I checked doors, including ours. Lately she has been whispering disturbing phrases: “Arjun must be protected from her.”

An icy fear came over me: if one day I turned that key and went in, what would I do?

I demanded that Arjun take her to a psychiatrist or I would leave the house. He accepted, although his eyes showed that he was still hiding more.

We took her to a psychiatrist in New Delhi. Shanti stood motionless, staring blankly. The doctor listened to our descriptions: the knocks, the looks, the whispers.

She was silent until she murmured,
“I have to watch… he will return… I can’t lose my son again.

The doctor, in private, 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 developed an obsessive fear that “the intruder” would return.

The doctor explained,
“When the daughter-in-law arrived, she interpreted her as another possible stranger, someone who could take her son away from her. That’s why I muttered ‘I have to protect Arjun from her.’ It was not hatred, it was pathological fear.I froze. I thought Shanti wanted to hurt me, but I was actually trapped in trauma. Arjun cried, blaming himself for not noticing.

The doctor was clear: long-term treatment, perhaps light medication, but above all family patience.

That night Shanti said to me,
“I don’t want to scare you… I just want my son to be safe.

For the first time, I felt compassion. I replied,
“Mom, you don’t need to knock any more. No one can hurt us, we are together.

She cried like a child when she felt understood.

The first days were difficult. He still woke up some nights saying he heard footsteps. I had to restrain myself so as not to get angry. Arjun reminded me:
“She is not an enemy, she is a victim.

We created new routines: checking doors together before bed, installing an electronic lock with an alarm, brewing chamomile tea, and talking about simple things. At first he was silent, then he began to share small memories. It was a sign that little by little it was opening up.

I learned that patience is not waiting for someone to change, but changing oneself to sustain it.

Over the months, the 3 a.m. knocks wore off. Shanti slept better, smiled more. The doctor confirmed advances: the warmth of the home was his best medicine.

I understood that healing does not mean “fixing” someone, but going through the darkness together. Shanti trusted again, Arjun learned to speak openly and I learned compassion.

Some wounds never heal, but treated in the family, they become stronger bonds.