The woman standing at the entrance was dressed impeccably—an expensive saree, a branded handbag, flowing hair, and dark sunglasses that covered half her face. But he recognized her instantly.
It was Radha.
She walked slowly toward them, holding a bouquet of red roses in her hand, her eyes fixed on Arvind, who was taking photos with his friends. Then she looked at the man and gave a faint smile, as if twenty-two years had never passed:
—“You’ve done a great job. I… I’m here to take my son back.”
Those words stabbed him like a knife. He tightened his grip on the bouquet of sunflowers he had brought for Arvind; the petals trembled in the warm evening air.
—“Take him back?” —his voice cracked— “Do you know how he grew up? How many nights I spent carrying him to the clinic with a 40-degree fever? Do you know the kids at school called him ‘the boy with no mother’ and I had to lie that you were abroad so he wouldn’t cry?”
Radha lowered her eyes, her voice suddenly uneasy:
—“I know I was wrong. But my life is stable now. I want to make it up to him. I don’t want Arvind to grow up without a mother.”
He let out a bitter laugh, trembling:
—“Without a mother? And what about me? Where were you when he took his first steps? When we didn’t have money, not even for diapers? When people called me crazy for raising a child you yourself weren’t even sure was mine?”
Radha stayed silent. She only looked at Arvind, who at that moment walked toward them, diploma in hand, a bright smile on his face.
—“Dad! I’m done!” —Arvind said excitedly.
The man turned to him, trying hard to hold back his tears. Arvind suddenly stopped when he noticed the woman standing beside them.
—“Excuse me… who are you?” —he asked politely, but with clear distance.
Radha’s hands trembled. She took off her sunglasses, revealing tear-filled eyes:
—“It’s me, Arvind. I… I’m your mother.”
The air grew heavy. A few nearby students began to watch.
Arvind stared at her, his breath shaky:
—“My mother? The one who left me when I couldn’t even speak? The one who made my dad endure years of humiliation for raising a child no one even wanted to acknowledge?”
—“I’m sorry… please. I’ve regretted it all these years. I want to start over.” —she pleaded, her voice breaking.
Arvind remained silent for a moment, then looked at the man beside him—thin, tired, dressed in an old shirt, but with the same warm smile he had always known. Arvind wrapped an arm around his shoulders:
—“Dad… let’s go. I feel like eating the samosas you make.”
That simple sentence was the final blow for Radha. The man looked at her one last time; there was no anger left, only deep exhaustion.
—“I lived twenty-two years for him. I’ve been his father… and his mother. You have no right to claim anything now. You came far too late.”
He turned away. The bouquet of sunflowers slipped from his hand, scattering yellow petals across the hot concrete.
Radha stood still, watching father and son disappear into the crowd. She placed a hand on her stomach—where she had once carried a child—but now there was an emptiness between herself and Arvind that could never be filled.
He did not look back. As the university speakers began playing the graduation ceremony music, the man quietly wiped a tear and whispered:
—“Arvind… today, I truly feel like I made it.”