After giving birth, my hor:mones shifted, and my husband kept complaining about how I smelled: “You reek, go sleep on the sofa in the living room.” That night, I whispered something that left him deeply ashamed.
My name is Tanvi, 29 years old. Three months ago, I delivered my first baby at AIIMS, New Delhi. My husband, Raghav Sharma, works as a marketing manager in Gurugram. He is charming, attractive, and comes from a wealthy South Delhi family. Our wedding once went “viral” on Facebook—everyone called me lucky. But only a few months after becoming a mother, my world started to collapse.
Following the birth of our son, Vihaan, my body went through drastic changes. I gained nearly 20 kilos, my skin darkened, and what unsettled me most was an odd body odor. No matter how often I bathed or used sprays, the smell lingered—likely due to postpartum hormones. Many women face this, but the humiliation was still unbearable, especially with Raghav’s growing impatience.
One evening, as I breastfed Vihaan, Raghav returned with a scowl. Dropping onto the sofa, he said coldly:
“Tanvi, you smell sour. Sleep in the living room tonight. Don’t mention this to anyone.”
His words cut deep. I tried to reason with him: “I just had a baby, my hormones are unstable… I’m trying my best.” He brushed me off:
“Stop with the excuses. I work all day, and when I come home, I have to deal with this? What kind of wife does that make you?”
That night, I lay on the sofa with my baby, my tears soaking the pillow. Soon after, Raghav began leaving early and returning late, claiming he was busy. I suspected more, but I stayed quiet.
My mother, Sarita, visiting from Noida, noticed my fatigue and gently asked. After listening, she only placed her hand on my shoulder:
“Stay calm, child. Men rarely grasp what women endure after childbirth. Don’t argue—let him come to understand it himself.”
I endured in silence, but his insults continued. Once, in front of friends at home, Raghav joked cruelly:
“Tanvi’s turned into an old maid now. She stinks—I can’t stand her.”
Everyone laughed. My heart broke, but for my son’s sake, I bit back my pain.
Then one night, Raghav stumbled in late and snapped:
“Look at you—fat, smelly. Marrying you was the worst decision of my life!”
I broke down, remembering my mother’s advice: “Don’t fight with words. Let your actions speak.”
The next morning, I opened a drawer where I had kept letters Raghav once wrote during our courtship, filled with promises like: “No matter what happens, I will love and protect you.”
I copied them, bound them into a small book, and wrote my own letter describing my journey: the back pain, swelling, stretch marks, every contraction at AIIMS, every tear shed, and the humiliation of being banished to the sofa over a smell I couldn’t control.
Beside it, I placed a USB drive containing a clip I had secretly recorded during delivery: me writhing in pain, crying his name, praying for him to be safe. At the end, I wrote a single line:
“This is the same ‘smelly’ woman you once vowed to love.”
That evening, Raghav came home. He opened the letters, then played the clip on the TV. I stood silently in the corner. His shoulders shook, and soon he buried his face in his hands, sobbing. After a long pause, he knelt before me:
“Tanvi, I was wrong. I never realized what you’ve been through. I’ve been a terrible husband.”
I did not forgive immediately.
“Do you think I wanted this body? I carried your child. You disgraced me in front of others. If you can’t change, I will walk away—because I deserve respect.”
Raghav clutched me, apologizing over and over. Still, the wound inside me remained.
At that moment, my mother revealed something she had kept quiet: she had taken me for an endocrinology exam at AIIMS. The diagnosis—postpartum thyroiditis. Rare, but treatable. She had already started guiding me through medication and checkups. Within weeks, my odor faded, my energy returned.
Raghav, shaken, tried to make amends. He suggested couples therapy in Saket, offered to take over weekend babysitting, and even said he would sleep in the living room so I could rest. He joined a “new father” program at an NGO in Gurugram. I set three rules:
- No body shaming, at home or in public.
- Share childcare and housework equally—the schedule pinned to the fridge.
- Respect medical treatment. No blaming me for laziness, no dismissing the doctor’s words.
He agreed, even signed our “house rules” sheet. I gave him time, without promises.
A month later, I began to feel myself again. My thyroid stabilized, weight eased, skin brightened, and the odor disappeared. Quietly, Raghav took over grocery runs, learned to bathe Vihaan, and set alarms at night to help. One day, I found an envelope on the table—his old words printed beside a new vow:
“I will love and protect—not with promises, but with actions.”
I no longer cared for roses or flattery. What I needed was respect. And this time, I saw it—in the kitchen, the laundry, the baby’s bottle, and the therapy sessions we attended together.
In the end, I understood: postpartum changes are real. A sour smell is not filth, but a sign the body needs healing. A good husband is not one who flatters, but one who admits his mistakes and learns how to be a partner again.
And the way I responded wasn’t with shouting—but with proof of his past words, set against the reality of my sacrifice. It forced him to confront himself, and reminded my whole family how much dignity a mother deserves.