I abruptly threw the child’s old backpack to the ground and looked at the 12-year-old boy with cold, distant eyes.

Go away. You’re not my son. My wife is dead. I have no obligation to take care of you. Go wherever you want.

She didn’t cry.
She simply bowed her head, silently picked up her torn bag, turned around, and walked away without saying a word.
Ten years later, when the truth was finally revealed, I wished more than anything that I could go back in time.My name is   Rajesh  , and I was 36 years old when my wife,   Meera  , passed away from a sudden stroke.
She left behind not only me but also a    12-year-old boy named Arjun .

But Arjun wasn’t biologically mine.
He was Meera’s son from a previous relationship.

When I married Meera, at 26, she had already gone through heartbreak: a nameless love, a pregnancy she carried alone.

At the time, I admired her strength.
She told me it was noble of her to “accept” her and her son.
But love that doesn’t come from the heart doesn’t last.

I raised Arjun as a responsibility, nothing more.

Everything fell apart when Meera died.
There was no one left to keep me connected to the boy.

Arjun remained silent, distant, always polite.
Perhaps he knew, deep down, that I never truly loved him.

A month after the funeral, I finally said it.

—Go away. Whether you live or die is none of my business.

I expected her to cry. To beg.

But he didn’t.

He just left.
And I didn’t feel anything.

I sold the house and moved.
Life went on. The business prospered. I met another woman, with no baggage or children.
For a few years, I thought about Arjun from time to time.
Not out of concern, but out of curiosity.
Where was he now? Was he even alive?But time erases even curiosity.

A 12-year-old boy, alone in the world: where could he go?

I didn’t know.
I didn’t care.

I even said to myself,   “If he’s dead, maybe it’s for the best.”

Ten years later.

I received a call from an unknown number.

Hello Mr. Rajesh. Could you attend the grand opening of the TPA Gallery on MG Road this Saturday?
Someone is very much hoping for your presence.

I was about to hang up, but the next sentence froze my hand:

“Don’t you want to know what happened to Arjun?”

I felt a tightness in my chest.   I hadn’t heard
that name,   Arjun , in ten years.

I paused. Then I replied, emphatically:

“I will go.”

The gallery was modern and crowded.
I walked in, feeling strangely out of place.
The paintings were striking: oil on canvas, cold, distant, evocative.

I read the artist’s name:   TPA

Those initials hurt me.

Hello, Mr. Rajesh.

A tall, thin young man, dressed in simple clothes, stood in front of me; his eyes were deep and unreadable.

Frozen me.
Era Arjun.

The fragile child I left behind was gone.
Before me stood a serene and accomplished man.
Familiar. And yet, so distant.

“You…” I stammered. “How…?”

He interrupted me, his voice calm and clear as crystal.

I just wanted you to see what my mother left behind.
And what   you left   behind.

He led me to a canvas wrapped in red cloth.

Her name is   Mother  . I’ve never shown her before.
But today I want you to  see her   .

I lifted the cloth.

There was Meera.
Lying in a hospital bed, pale and frail.
In her hand, a photo of the three of us from the only trip we took together.

My knees gave way.

Arjun’s voice did not waver:

Before she died, she wrote a diary.
I knew you didn’t love me.
But I still believed that one day you would understand.
Because… I’m not another man’s daughter.

I stopped breathing.

“That…?”

Yes. I’m   your   son.
She was already pregnant when you met her.
But she told you I was someone else’s, to test your heart.
And then, it was too late to confess.

I found the truth in his diary. Hidden in the old attic.

The world collapsed around me.

I had thrown out my own son.

And now he stood before me—dignified, successful—while I had lost everything.

I had lost my son twice.
And the second time, it was forever.

I sat in a corner of the gallery, devastated.
Her words echoed in my mind like knives piercing my soul:

“I am your son.”
“I was afraid you were only staying out of obligation.”
“He chose silence… because he loved you.”
“You walked away out of fear of responsibility.”

I once thought I was noble for “accepting” another man’s child.
But I was never truly kind. I was never fair. I was never a father.

And when Meera died, I discarded Arjun, as if he were something unwanted.

Without knowing it… it was   my own blood  .
I tried to speak,
but Arjun had already turned away.I ran after him.

“Arjun… wait… If I had known… if I had   known   you were mine…”

He looked back. Calm. But distant.

I’m not here to apologize.
I don’t need your reproaches.
I just wanted you to know that my mother never lied.
She loved you. And she chose silence… so that you could freely choose love.

I was speechless.

I don’t hate you.
Because if you hadn’t pushed me away…
perhaps I would never have become who I am today.

He handed me an envelope. Inside, a copy of Meera’s diary.
In shaky handwriting, she had written:

If you ever read this, please forgive me.
I was afraid.
I was afraid you only wanted me   for   the child.
But Arjun is   our   son.
From the moment I knew I was pregnant, I wanted to tell you.
But you weren’t sure. And I was afraid.
I hoped that if you truly loved him, the truth wouldn’t matter.

I cried.

In silence.
Because I had failed as a husband. As a father.
And now… I had nothing left.

I tried to fix it, but it wasn’t easy.

In the following weeks, I contacted Arjun.
I wrote to him. I waited outside his gallery. Not to apologize, but to be near him.

But Arjun no longer needed me.

One day, he agreed to meet.
His voice was softer, but firm.

You don’t need to atone for your sins.
I don’t blame you.
But I don’t need a father.
Because the one I had… chose not to need me.

I nodded.
He was right.

I gave her my savings account: everything I had.
I had planned to leave it to my new partner, but when I found out the truth, I broke off the relationship the next day.

I can’t bring back the past.
But if you’ll allow me… I’ll support you.
Silently. Without any expectations. Without demands.
Just knowing you’re okay is enough.

Arjun stared at me for a long time.

Then he said:

I accept.
Not for the money.
But because my mother believed you could still be a good man.

Time is the only thing we can never get back.

He was no longer a “father”.
But I followed his every step.

I invested discreetly in his gallery. I recommended collectors. I shared contacts from my professional days.

I couldn’t get my son back.
But I refused to lose him again.

Every year, on the anniversary of Meera’s death, I visited the temple.
Kneeling before her picture, I wept.

I’m sorry. I was selfish.
But I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to fix it.

The year Arjun turned 22, he was invited to exhibit at an international art show.
On his personal website, he wrote a short sentence:

—For you, Mom. I made it myself.