At six o’clock in the morning, my mother-in-law ruthlessly yanked the blanket from the bed where I, a weary pregnant woman, was lying.

“Get up, lazybones! I’m starving! How much longer do you plan to lounge around?!” she snapped with scorn dripping from her voice.

She had no inkling of what awaited her the very next dawn.

The early months of pregnancy were a relentless torment — unending nausea, dizzy spells, utter exhaustion, sleepless nights.
Simply rising from the bed felt like an insurmountable feat.

And as if that weren’t enough, there was my mother-in-law — endlessly judgmental, suspicious, and relentlessly intrusive. She never granted me a moment of peace.

Each morning brought a fresh dose of spite: jeers, threats, yelling.

The moment I dared utter a single word in my defense, she’d rush to my husband, complain bitterly, threaten to leave, stir up conflict — anything to silence me.

That night, I barely slept a wink. Only around five a.m., when my eyelids finally began to droop under the weight of exhaustion, I was startled awake by a sharp, insistent voice right by my face:

“Get up, good-for-nothing! I’m hungry! You lie around all day, good for nothing!”

I swallowed hard, squeezed my eyes shut, fighting back tears.

“Mom, I’m not feeling well…” I whispered faintly. “I was vomiting all night…”

“Cut it out with the ‘I’m sick’ nonsense!” she retorted with disdain. “Back in my day, women gave birth quietly, without whining like children!”

I slid out of bed, wiped the dark circles beneath my eyes, and with an empty stomach began preparing breakfast.
But something inside me shattered.

I realized this couldn’t go on any longer. I had to devise a plan. I had to break through her arrogance, show her she had no right to treat me this way.

Evening was the perfect moment to put my scheme into action. Once everyone was asleep — my father-in-law, mother-in-law, husband — I made sure the lights were off and silence blanketed the house.

From the closet, I retrieved a small Bluetooth speaker and played a recording — faint sobs, broken whispers, anxious breaths, a child’s crying.

I set the volume very low, so it sounded as if it were coming from afar, like something invisible was calling out. I hid the speaker in a corner of the living room so the sounds would echo softly off the walls.

The first few minutes — nothing. Just a gentle hum filling the air. Then — a sigh, as if someone whispered in another room.

Then — a creak. Like the bed groaned. Like a door might soon open.

After the third minute, I heard my mother-in-law stir. Steps — hesitant, suspicious — on the upper floor.

The sounds seeped through the walls — muffled childlike crying, a woman’s whispering, unintelligible words.

Did she hear them? Definitely. Then suddenly, silence fell.

As if the speaker had quieted, as if the sounds had retreated.

She lay back down. Maybe she thought it was just a dream. But not long after — the sounds resumed. Crying, footsteps, the same whispers.

Fear hung heavy over the house like a dark fog in the dead of night.

She believed it was a nightmare — but the pain of pregnancy was no dream.

She jumped in bed, her heart pounding wildly.

“Who’s there?!” she called out with a trembling voice.

No answer came. Only a faint tapping against the wall. And then silence again.

Until dawn, she didn’t close her eyes. Her face pale, eyes bloodshot.

In the morning, when we met in the kitchen, terror lingered in her expression.

“Did you hear someone talking last night?” she asked uncertainly.

I replied with an innocent smile:

“No, Mom. I was reading all night. I didn’t hear a sound. Maybe it was just a dream?”

She looked taken aback. Maybe she believed me.

The next night — once again — the recording played its symphony. Whispers, crying, footsteps behind the wall, muffled knocks, as if someone wandered the house at night, murmuring secrets.

My mother-in-law began whispering farewells, murmuring prayers.

She thought her deceased husband had returned.

She hid, trembling, closed her eyes, folded her hands in prayer, begging the heavens for protection.

At dawn, with shaking hands, she approached me in the kitchen.

“I can’t take it anymore… Something terrible is happening in this house,” she whispered, terrified.

I looked at her calmly, sighed deeply, and said quietly but firmly:

“Maybe it’s divine punishment. Maybe this is happening because you weren’t kind to those around you.”

My words stirred something within her — as if old chains were breaking.

From that morning, she changed. She stopped yelling, no longer harassed me, no longer attacked.

She started bringing tea, asking how I felt, opening windows, talking with me.

And the nights grew quiet again.

The sounds vanished… because I had turned off the speaker.

Today, when she looks at me, sometimes I glimpse remorse in her eyes, sometimes a cold distance — but she no longer hurts me.

And I — fragile and pregnant — learned that sometimes the silent voice of night is stronger than the loudest scream of day.

This story isn’t just about revenge or justice — it’s about how even the smallest secret can echo between the walls.

And how fear sometimes falls silent beneath the weight of cunning.