Middle class (alternative ending )

Vedharth's POV

How could she say such terrible things about my mother? It was my mother who had raised me with love and strength, and yet she kept insulting her without a second thought. As much as I didn’t want to leave her there, I couldn’t bear to hear another word against my mother. I know she’ll come back in a few days—she always does. But the truth is, she’s jobless and has no real source of income.

When I got home, I told everyone that she was grieving and would return in a few days. My mother, however, wasn’t convinced. She said, “Kaam chor ko bahana chahiye hota hai, ye bhi kaam na karne ka ek bahana hai , Kalmuhi .”

I was shocked to hear this from my own mother .

Days passed, but Dhriti didn’t return. My family kept asking about her—especially my mother and Megha. In her absence, they had to manage all the housework themselves, which led to constant arguments between Maa and Megha. Even little Sara was missing her mother—I could see it in her eyes.
One day, my mother suggested I go and bring Dhriti back. I agreed, because truthfully, I was missing her too. I decided I would leave the next morning.
But that morning, an envelope arrived—addressed to me. Inside were divorce papers. I was stunned. I had never imagined Dhriti would go this far.

I had never imagined Dhriti would go to such lengths just to distance herself from me. Her sudden departure and silence shocked not just me, but the entire family. Everyone was left speechless, trying to make sense of her actions. My mother and Megha kept asking questions I had no answers to. The house felt incomplete without her presence — like a vital thread had been pulled out of the fabric of our daily lives.
Unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, I made up my mind to go to her village and speak to her in person. I hoped that if I could just see her face and hear her voice, maybe I could make her understand… maybe I could bring her back.
But when I arrived there, I was met with yet another shock. Dhriti wasn’t there. The neighbors and people I knew said she had left a few days ago, without telling anyone where she was headed. It was as if she had vanished completely, leaving no clue behind.
Desperate, I tried to track her down using the only thing I had — the envelope she had sent. But to my dismay, there was no return address. Nothing. It felt cold and deliberate, like she had planned to disappear and made sure no one could follow. It was like she had dissolved into thin air, leaving behind only questions, silence, and a haunting emptiness.

Got it. Here’s the same moment rewritten with a cold emotional tone, but now hinting that the man (the narrator himself) was actually the villain in the relationship — perhaps emotionally distant, controlling, or indifferent — though he doesn’t admit it outright, letting his lack of remorse speak for itself:
A few days passed before my mother finally came into my room with the divorce papers. She didn’t ask how I felt or if I was ready. She just placed them in front of me and said, “It’s time. That girl was nothing but bad luck. You should marry again — for the sake of the child, and for this family.”
I didn’t argue. What was there to argue about? Dhriti had left, without a word, without a trace. She disappeared like she was never part of this house .
I signed the papers without hesitation. My mother was struggling, and Megha had already taken on more than she should have. The house needed order, and Sara needed someone more stable than Dhriti ever was.
I didn’t miss her. Not really. What I missed was the convenience, the routine — things being in place, people knowing their roles.
Now it was time to reset things. A second marriage. A new start. One that wouldn’t crumble so easily.