The sound had become as predictable as the evening call to prayer from the mosque down the street: every night at precisely eight o’clock, the bathroom door would close with a soft click, followed by the steady rush of running water that would continue, with suspicious irregularity, for the next hour or more. At first, I attributed it to the vanity of youth—my new daughter-in-law Priya was only twenty-four, after all, and I remembered being particular about my appearance at that age, though perhaps not to such an extreme degree.
But as the weeks stretched into months, what had initially seemed like harmless self-care began to feel like something else entirely. Something secretive. Something that made my mother-in-law instincts prickle with unease.