I dropped the child’s worn-out schoolbag to the floor and looked at him—my expression cold, almost indifferent.
He didn’t cry.
He quietly picked up his torn bag, lowered his head, and walked away… without a word.
Ten years later, what I discovered shattered my entire world.
My name is Rajesh. I was 36 when my wife, Meera, passed away suddenly from a stroke.
She didn’t just leave me behind—she left a 12-year-old son named Arjun.
But, as I’d been told back then, Arjun wasn’t my biological son.
Meera, whom I married when she was 26, had already lived through heartbreak. A fleeting romance. A pregnancy she had faced on her own.
“Leave. I don’t care what happens to you.”
I expected him to cry, to beg.
But he didn’t.
He just left.
I sold our house. Moved away. Started over. My business thrived. I met another woman—no children, no complicated past.
Arjun? Sometimes I wondered where he was. Out of curiosity. Nothing more.
A 12-year-old boy, alone—where could he be? Alive? Maybe. Maybe not. I didn’t care.
Until that day.
A call. Unknown number.
“Hello, Mr. Rajesh. Would you consider attending the opening of the TPA Gallery this Saturday on MG Road?
Someone really hopes you’ll come.”
I was about to hang up. Then came the words:
“Don’t you want to know what happened to Arjun?”
My heart stopped.
That name… Arjun… I hadn’t heard it in ten years.
I took a deep breath.
“I’ll be there.”
The gallery was sleek, modern, packed with people.
I walked in, uneasy.
The paintings were intense. Cold. Strangely familiar. Signed T.P.A.
Then, a voice:
“Hello, Mr. Rajesh.”
A tall, composed young man stood in front of me. Calm eyes, piercing gaze.
It was him. Arjun.
The frail boy was gone—replaced by a confident, successful artist.
He looked straight at me.
“I wanted you to see what my mother left you.
And what you left behind.”
He led me to a canvas covered by a red cloth.
“I called it Mother. No one’s ever seen it before.
But you need to.”
I lifted the cloth.
It was Meera. Lying down, pale, emaciated.
Holding a photo of the three of us, from the only trip we ever took.
My legs gave out.
Arjun’s voice stayed steady:
“Before she died, she kept a journal.
She knew you didn’t love me.
But she still believed—one day—you’d understand.
Because I’m not another man’s son.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“What…?”
“She was already pregnant when she met you.
But she told you I was someone else’s—to test your heart.
And later, she was too afraid to tell the truth.”
“I found her journal, hidden in the attic.”
Everything collapsed.
I had cast away… my own child.
And now, here he stood—strong, gracious.
I was empty. Broken.
He continued:
“She loved you. She stayed silent, hoping you’d love me anyway.
She gave you the freedom to choose.”
I wanted to speak. Nothing came out.
“I don’t hate you.
If you hadn’t pushed me away…
I might not have become who I am.”
He handed me an envelope. Meera’s journal.
Her shaky handwriting read:
“If you ever read this, forgive me.
I was scared you’d only love me because of the child.
But Arjun is yours.
I wanted to tell you. But I couldn’t.
I prayed that love would be stronger than the truth.”
Tears rolled down my face. Silently.
I had failed.
I tried to fix things. But it was too late.
I reached out to Arjun. Waited. Hoped. Not for forgiveness—just to stay close.
One day, he agreed to meet.
His voice was gentle but firm.
“You don’t need to fix anything.
I don’t need a father.
The one I had… chose not to need me.”
I didn’t insist.
I gave him my savings book. Everything I owned. I had left everything behind.
“I can’t change the past.
But I can be here. Quietly. No title. No expectations.
Just knowing you’re okay… is enough.”
He looked at me for a long time.
Then said:
“I accept. Not for the money.
Because my mother believed you could still be a good man.”
Time. The one thing we can never take back.
I wasn’t a father anymore. But I stayed close.
I quietly supported his gallery. Shared his name with old contacts.
I couldn’t have him back.
But I refused to lose him again.
Each year, I visit the temple on Meera’s anniversary.
I pray. I cry.
“I’m sorry. I was selfish.
But I’ll spend my life trying to be better.”
At 22, Arjun was invited to a major international exhibition.
He posted one short message:
“For you, Mom. I made it.”
And underneath it—a message for me.
“If you’re free… the exhibit opens Saturday.”
One word.
“Dad.”
And time stood still.