I was my family's ATM for 12 years. Now I have no job, no home, and lost my unborn child because of them.

Part One: The Boy Behind the Closed Door

The story begins on October 19, 1988, in the sterile wards of the DVC Hospital in BTPS. I was the youngest of four, born into a world that seemed to have already decided we were less than the others.

My childhood wasn't defined by toys or playgrounds, but by the sound of a leather belt and the muffled weeping of my mother. While my cousins in the joint family slept soundly, secure in their parents' government jobs and stable homes, I spent my nights in the corridor. I would sit curled up outside my parents' closed bedroom door, shivering not from the cold, but from the terror. I listened to the abuse, the strikes, and the insults my father hurled at my mother, begging through the wood for him to stop, for him to spare her.

The tragedy was that my pain was entertainment for the rest of the house. My uncles and aunts, who should have been protectors, found pleasure in our misery. Their laughter the next morning was as sharp as the belt. I was the sensitive one—the one whose body betrayed his anxiety in his sleep, the one who looked at his grandparents and wondered, “Do we really share the same blood? How can they hate us this much?”

When my grandfather died in 1997, the joint family fractured. The "successful" uncles moved to their quarters, and we were left behind in the ancestral home. It was a crumbling structure of five small rooms, a veranda, and a dark history. Surrounded by agricultural land, our home was besieged by nature just as we were besieged by poverty; snakes and rodents were our frequent houseguests. We were living in ruins—physically, metaphorically, and mentally.

I tried to find my worth in books. By 2001, I was a bright student, respected by teachers, but I felt invisible among peers. My body was frail, "kid-like," and a constant source of mockery for my friends. As I grew, the trauma began to bleed into my grades. The decline was slow, then sudden.

The college years were my darkest chapter. I, who had once been the bright hope, started failing. First one semester, then another. The shame was so heavy that in 2011, I found myself lying on a railway track, waiting for an end to the noise in my head. But fate—or perhaps the hands of strangers—pulled me back. I was saved.

I had to live.

The turning point came in December 2011. While working a call center job, I cracked the Central Bank of India exam. I was posted to Supaul. Suddenly, the boy who was mocked for being poor became the family’s lifeline.

For the next decade, I became the foundation upon which my family stood. I buried my own needs to pay off my father’s debts—debts born of his ego and irresponsibility. I funded my mother’s medical treatments when she fell gravely ill in 2017. I arranged my sisters' marriages. I bought bikes for my father, then finally one for myself. I gave, and I gave, and I gave. I even left parts of myself behind—literally losing my left thumb in an accident in 2016.

Through it all, I felt less like a son and more like an ATM machine. My brother and sister-in-law had distanced themselves, and my father’s side of the family had abandoned us completely. It was just me.

When our extended family finally evicted my parents from the old, snake-ridden ancestral home, I knew I had one final mountain to climb. I needed to build them a sanctuary. A place where no one could mock us, where no uncle could kick us out.

I took a loan and bought a plot and oversaw the construction. And finally, in May 2022, we moved into Our House. It stood as a testament to my survival. It was supposed to be the happy ending. It was supposed to be the moment I could finally rest and say, "We made it."

But the walls of a new house cannot change the people living inside it.

I am ready for the next part.

You mentioned that after moving into this house—the symbol of your sacrifice—your own parents caused a twist.

Part Two: The House With No Heart

The twist I feared didn't come from the snakes in the fields or the debts of the past. It came from the very people I built the house for.

To understand the betrayal, I must go back to a flicker of light in my dark years. It was December 2013, at the rural branch in Supaul. A simple girl approached my counter and said, with genuine warmth, "Happy New Year, Sir." Her name was Lata. On January 1st, 2014, I gathered the courage to call her back. That phone call changed everything. We shared our scars, our struggles, and in her, I found the "baby heart" I had been searching for—pure, uncorrupted, and kind.

We promised to marry. But my life was not my own; it belonged to my family's debts and demands. It wasn't until June 21, 2021, while the Siwan house was still under construction, that I finally claimed my own happiness. We married in a simple temple ceremony.

I brought Lata home, hoping her kindness would win them over. But my parents saw only two things: she was not "fair-skinned," and she was not from the upper caste they coveted. It didn't matter that she treated them with reverence. My mother preferred my elder sister-in-law—a woman who was fair and Brahmin, but who treated my parents with disdain. In my mother’s eyes, a disrespectful fair skin was worth more than a loving dark one.

When we finally moved into the new house in May 2022, the cruelty escalated. The house had four large rooms and modern amenities, yet there wasn't a single inch of space in their hearts for us.

My mother began a campaign of psychological warfare. She would sit in front of Lata and loudly ask me to remarry, lamenting that I had ruined the family lineage. When I defended my wife, my mother would fake tears, turning my father and siblings against me. I was painted as the villain in the very house I risked my life to build.

Then came the moment that broke my spirit completely.

Decades ago, when we were starving, I used to tutor my rich uncle’s son for a mere 10 rupees a day. That uncle had once accused me of stealing a mobile phone. He had humiliated my father, threatened to jail me, and questioned my sisters' characters. The phone was later found in his own home, but the scar of that insult remained on my soul.

In 2023, that same uncle invited my parents to a ceremony. I begged them not to go. I reminded them of the tears, the abuse, the humiliation we suffered at his hands. I thought, surely, my parents would choose my dignity over a social gathering.

I was wrong. They mocked me. They called me "oversensitive" and "naive." They, along with my sisters, dressed up and went to the uncle's house, desperate for validation from the rich relative who had once treated us like garbage. Standing in the empty hallway of my new house, I realized the truth: I was just an ATM. It was useful, but I was not loved. I was a stranger in my own home.

The toxicity became a poison in the air. In 2023, Lata became pregnant. It should have been joyous. Instead, my mother was visibly disturbed. The ambience in the house turned so negative, so filled with malice and stress, that it took a physical toll on Lata.

We lost the baby.

The miscarriage shattered what little resolve I had left. I looked at the house—the bricks bought with my sweat, the foundation laid with my sacrifice—and I hated it. I was broken by the taunts, the ungratefulness, and the grief.

I resigned from my job. The career I had built from the ashes of my youth, I let it go. I couldn't focus; I couldn't function.

Now, it is 2026. The savings are gone. My health is failing. We are devastated, living in the shadow of a dream that turned into a nightmare. I am a man who gave everything to his parents and received nothing but betrayal in return.

And yet, in this darkness, there is one faint light. Lata. The girl who wished me a Happy New Year in 2013 is still here. She has lost her child, she has suffered my parents' insults, and she watches her husband sit jobless and broken. But when she looks at me, she doesn't see a failure. She still sees the man who survived the railway tracks. She still has hope.

And because she has hope, I must find a way to breathe again.

This brings us to the present day.

You have told a story of immense sacrifice and immense pain. But you ended on a very crucial note: "My wife still has hopes in me."

You are currently jobless and hurting, but you are still the man who passed the Central Bank exam when everyone counted him out. You are still the man who built a house from nothing.

I expect help from someone reading this.