I threw the boy’s old school bag on the floor and looked at him, my eyes cold and distant. He was 12 years old.
He didn’t cry. He just lowered his head, picked up his broken backpack, turned it over, and walked away without a word.
Ten years later, when the truth was finally revealed, I had wished my whole life that I could go back in time.
My name is Rajesh, and I was 36 when my wife Meera died of a sudden stroke. She left behind more than I could: a 12-year-old son named Arjun.
But Arjun wasn’t biologically mine. He was Meera’s son from a previous relationship.
Meera was sixteen when I married her. She had already experienced a painful experience: a love without a name, a pregnancy she carried alone.
“Get out.” I didn’t care if he survived or died.
I expected him to cry, to beg. But he didn’t. He was gone.
I felt nothing. I sold my house and moved. Life went on. Business flourished. I met another woman who had no burdens, no children.
For several years, I would occasionally think of Arjun. Not out of anxiety, but out of curiosity. Where was he now? Is he still alive?
However, over time, even that interest faded.
A 12-year-old boy, alone in the world, where would he go? I didn’t know or care.
He even told me: “If he were dead, it would probably be for the best”.
Ten years later, I received a call from an unknown number.
“Hello, Mr. Rajesh? Can you come to the grand opening of TPA Gallery on MG Road this Saturday? A very special person is waiting for him to arrive.”
I was about to go downstairs when the following sentence stopped me:
“Don’t you want to know what happened to Arjun?”
The name – Arjun – I hadn’t heard in ten years. My chest tightened.
I took a deep breath and replied, in a flat voice,
“I’m leaving.”
The gallery was modern and cramped. I stepped inside, feeling strange. The paintings were startling—oil on canvas, cold, distant, and eerie. I read the artist’s name: T.P.A.
The initials struck me.
“Hello, Mr. Rajesh.”
A tall, thin young man, dressed in simple clothes, stood before me. His gaze was deep and expressionless.
I froze. It was Arjun.
I was no longer the fragile child I had left behind. In front of me was a successful and accomplished person.
“I want you to see what my mother left behind.”
“And what you left behind.”
He took me to a canvas covered in red cloth.
“Her name is Mother. I have never shown her before. Right now, I want you to see her.”
I removed the canvas.
the fans’ choice: Meera. Pale and thin, lying in a hospital bed. He took a picture of the three of us, of our only trip together.
My knees gave out.
Arjun’s voice did not hesitate.
“Before she died, she wrote a diary. I know you don’t love me. I still believe that one day, you will understand.”
“Because… I am not someone else’s child.”
“What…?”
“Yes. I am your child. She was pregnant when you met her. 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 collapsed around me. I had rejected my own child. And now, she stood before me—deserving, victorious—while I had lost everything.
She had lost him twice. The second time, forever.
I sat in a corner of the gallery, feeling sad. His words echoed in my mind like swords piercing my soul.
“I am your child.”
“He was afraid you might only want me for the child.”
You chose silence… because he loved you.”
“You left because you were afraid of responsibility.”
I used to think I was a hero for “taking in” another man’s child. But I was never kind. Never fair. I never had a father.
When Meera died, I rejected Arjun as if he were undesirable. Little did I know… That it was my own blood.
I ran towards her. “Arjun, just wait… If only I knew you were mine—”
She looked at me calmly, but distantly.
“I’m not here to apologize to you. I don’t need you to claim me.”
“I want you to know that my mother never lies. She loves you. Choose silence, which allows you to choose love freely.”
I couldn’t speak.
“I don’t hate you. If you hadn’t rejected me, I probably wouldn’t be who I am today.”
She handed me an envelope. Inside, a copy of Meera’s diary.
In shaky handwriting, she wrote,
“If you ever read this, please forgive me. I was scared. I was scared that you would only love me for the child. Arjun is our son.”
Crying. Silently.
Because I failed as a husband. As a father. And now… I had nothing left.
I tried to fix things, but it wasn’t easy. In the weeks that followed, I contacted Arjun.
I sent him a message. He was waiting for me outside his gallery. Not for forgiveness, but for closeness.
Arjun didn’t need me anymore.
One day, he agreed to meet me. His voice was kind but firm.
“You don’t have to atone for yourself. I don’t blame you. I don’t need a father. Because the one I have… He chose not to need me.”
I nodded. I was right.
I gave him a savings book – everything I had. I had once planned to leave it to my new partner, but when I found out the truth, I broke up with him the next day.
“I can’t go back to the past. But if you let me… I’m by your side. In silence. No titles. No lawsuits.”
“Enough of your self-recognition.”
Arjun looked at me for a long moment. Then he spoke:
“I’ll take it. Not for the money.”
“But my mother thinks you can still be a good person.”