“Go away. You’re not my son. My wife is dead. I have no obligation to take care of you. Go wherever you want.”
He didn’t cry.
He didn’t beg.
He just bowed his head, picked up his torn backpack, and walked away silently—without saying a single word.
Ten years later, when the truth came out, I wished more than ever I could turn back time.My name is Rajesh, and I was 36 when my wife, Meera, died of a sudden stroke. She
left behind not just 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 been through great pain—a nameless love, a pregnancy she faced alone.
Back then, I admired her strength.
I told myself I was noble for “accepting” 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 hold me and the child together.
Arjun was always quiet, distant, respectful.
Perhaps he knew—deep down—that I never truly loved him.
A month after the funeral, I finally told him:
“Go. Whether you live or die, I don’t care.”
I expected her to cry. To beg.
But he didn’t.
He left.
And I felt nothing.
I sold the house and moved.
Life went on. The business prospered. I met another woman—no burdens, no children.
For a few years, I sometimes thought about Arjun.
Not out of concern—just curiosity.
Where was he? Was he still 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 died, maybe it was for the best. At least he wouldn’t be suffering anymore.”
Ten years later.
I received a call from an unknown number.
“Hello, Mr. Rajesh? Could you please attend the opening of the TPA Gallery on MG Road this Saturday?
Someone is really hoping to see you there.”
I was about to hang up — but the next sentence stopped me in my tracks:
“Don’t you want to know what happened to Arjun?”
My chest tightened.
I hadn’t heard that name—Arjun—in ten years.
I paused. Then I answered curtly:
“I’ll go.”
The gallery was modern and crowded.
I walked in feeling out of place.
The paintings were striking—oil on canvas, cold, distant, unsettling.
I read the artist’s name: TPA
Those initials hit me.
“Hello, Mr. Rajesh.”
A tall, thin young man, dressed simply, stood before me—with a deep, indecipherable gaze.
Frozen me.
Arjun era.
He was no longer the fragile child I had abandoned.
In front of me was a composed, successful man. Familiar, yet so distant.
“You…” I stammered. “How…?”
He interrupted me—his voice calm, sharp as glass.
“I just wanted you to see what my mother left behind.
And what you decided to abandon.”
He led me to a canvas covered with a red cloth.
“It’s called Mother. I’ve never shown it before.
But today I want you to see it.”
I lifted the cloth.
There she was—Meera.
In a hospital bed, pale and frail.
In her hand, a photo—of the three of us, on the only trip we’d ever taken together.
My knees buckled.
Arjun’s voice did not tremble:
“Before he died, he wrote a diary.
He knew you didn’t love me.
But he still believed—that one day you would understand.
Because… I am not another man’s son.”
I stopped breathing.
“That…?”
“Yes. I’m your son.
She was already pregnant when she met you.
But she told you it was someone else’s—to test your heart.
And then, it was too late to confess.”
“I found the truth in her diary. Hidden in the old attic.”
The world fell apart for me.
I had thrown out my own son.
And now, he stood before me—worthy, successful—while I had lost everything.
I had lost my son twice.
And the second time… forever.
I sat in a corner of the gallery, devastated.
His words echoed like knives in my soul:
“I’m your son.”
“She was afraid you’d only stay out of duty.”
“She chose to remain silent… because she loved you.”
“You left because you feared the responsibility.”
I once thought I was noble for “accepting” another’s child.
But I was never truly kind. Never fair. Never a father.
And when Meera died, I discarded Arjun — as something worthless.
Without knowing… that 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. Serene. But distant.
“I’m not here for your apologies.
I don’t need you to acknowledge me.
I just wanted you to know—that my mother never lied.
She loved you. And she chose silence… so that you could choose to love freely.”
I couldn’t say anything.
“I don’t hate you.
Because if you hadn’t pushed me away…
I might never have become who I am today.”
He handed me an envelope. Inside—a copy of Meera’s diary.
In her shaky handwriting, she had written:
“If you ever read this—please forgive me.
I was afraid.
Afraid that you would only love me for the child.
But Arjun is our son.
From the moment I knew I was pregnant, I wanted to tell you.
But you hesitated. 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 sought out Arjun.
I texted him. I waited outside his gallery. Not out of forgiveness—just to be close.
But Arjun didn’t need me anymore.
One day, he agreed to see me.
His voice was softer, but firm.
“You don’t need to atone.
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 handed him a savings account—everything I had.
I’d once planned to leave it with my new partner—but when I learned the truth, I broke up with him the next day.
“I can’t take back the past.
But if you let me… I’ll be behind you.
Silently. Without titles. Without demands.
Just knowing you’re okay—that’s enough for me.”
Arjun looked at me for a long moment.
Then he said:
“I’ll accept it.
Not for the money.
But because my mother believed you could still be a good man.”
Time — the only thing you can never get back.
I was no longer a “father.”
But I followed his every step.
I quietly invested in his gallery. I recommended collectors to him. I shared contacts from my business 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 photo, I wept:
“I’m sorry. I was selfish.
But I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it right.”
The year Arjun turned 22, he was invited to exhibit at an international art exhibition.
On his personal page, he wrote a single sentence:
“For you, Mom. I did it.”
And underneath — for the first time in ten years — he sent me a message:
“If you’re free… the exhibition opens this Saturday.”
I froze.
The word “Dad” — so simple —
and yet, it marked the end of all the pain… and the beginning of something new.
Final message:
Some mistakes can never be undone.
But genuine repentance can still reach the heart.
Happiness is not in perfection—
but in having the courage to face what once seemed unforgivable.