I passed the university entrance exam at the age of 18. It was the happiest day of my life, and also the day that left the biggest scar on my heart, a scar that stayed with me for 15 years.

I still remember that fateful afternoon clearly. From the window of my small house on the outskirts of Lucknow, the sunset sun shone on my university admission card – the prestigious engineering school in Delhi I had dreamed of for so many years. My hands trembled, and I burst into tears of joy. It was the first time I felt I had done something worthy of my mother, despite a childhood full of deprivations. But just a few hours later, that paper was reduced to ashes by my stepfather.

He – Rajesh – didn’t say a word, just looked at me with cold eyes and lit it on fire. I screamed, ran to retrieve it, but it was too late. He silently turned away, leaving me sprawled on the ground, my hands still smelling of burnt paper.

From that moment on, I hated him. I hated him so much that for 15 years, I didn’t call him “Papa,” didn’t look him in the eye, or attend family dinners with him. I left home soon after. My mother, Sarla, called and cried, but I had closed the doors to the past.

Leaving home without any money, I had to temporarily put aside my dreams of going to university and work in a textile factory in Kanpur to make ends meet. A year later, I re-took the exam and got into another school. Although it wasn’t as prestigious as the previous one, it was still a university.

I graduated, went to work, and struggled in the city of Mumbai. I didn’t return home even once until my life became comfortable and I bought a small apartment. My mother would occasionally call to say that my stepfather was weak these days and couldn’t eat, but I remained silent.

It doesn’t matter to me. In my mind, he’s the one who killed my dreams, the one who took away the path that should have been wide open.

Last month, my mother called me in a trembling voice:

– He… is gone, my child. He had a stroke while sweeping the yard. Can you come home?

I said nothing, quietly hung up. That night, I drank alone. I didn’t cry, I wasn’t sad, I wasn’t happy, I just felt empty. The hatred I’d harbored for so long seemed to melt away in the smoke of alcohol.

A few days later, I returned home. The old house had become even more dilapidated than before. My mother had grown thinner, her hair almost white. She hugged me, tears streaming down her face. I let her hug me for the first time in years.

After dinner, my mother called me into her room and said she wanted to show me something. I reluctantly followed her, then she handed me an old wooden box and said:

– There’s something you need to know in this, open it.

With that, my mother turned and left, leaving me alone in the room. I opened the box and was stunned by what was inside. On top was a stack of newspapers and magazines, containing articles from my high school days. Some documents containing my admission information at 18, and a notebook painted over with time.

I opened the notebook; on the first page was written: “Diary – Written for the boy who never calls me Papa.” I was a little surprised, my hands shaking as I turned each page and read each crooked line.

“Today he got his admission notice. He smiled. It was the first time I’d seen him smile so brightly…”

“I burned the notice. I’m a scoundrel. But the tuition at that school is exorbitant. I calculated that even if we sold our cows, it wouldn’t be enough. If he goes to school, his mother would have to borrow money from a moneylender. I’m scared. I don’t want him to be in debt for the rest of his life. I chose the worst possible path: to kill his dreams so he can live in peace.”

“He hates me. I understand. But if I had the chance again… I would do the same. I would rather let him hate me than see him suffer, see my wife suffer. I’m truly useless, I can’t properly care for my wife and children. If only I’d been more careful that year, not fallen from the scaffolding and ended up with an illness, everything would have been different.”

I couldn’t hold back my tears. The pages felt like they were squeezing my heart. I knew my stepfather had fallen from scaffolding, and his health had deteriorated after that, but I didn’t expect it to leave a hidden illness in his body. It turned out that was why he often took time off work and stayed home, and at that time I often secretly blamed him for being lazy, leaving his wife to do the hard work, which is really unbecoming of a man. It turned out that all my life I had misunderstood a man who knew only how to love me in his own way, a rough, harsh, but sacrificial way.

I hugged the notebook and went into the kitchen. My mother was washing dishes. I placed the notebook on the table and asked softly:

– How long have you known this?

She paused, looked at me for a long moment, and then said:

– I just found out. I also thought he hated me, that’s why he did this. After you left, he didn’t say anything. We… we spoke very little. I didn’t understand him until I cleaned up the things he left behind.

My throat choked:

– I wish… he would say something.

My mother shook her head slightly, her eyes welling with tears:

– I wish… but he was always like that, no matter how tired he was, he never complained, always endured it himself.

That night, I sat in front of his altar. For the first time in my life, I called out:

– Papa…

“Papa,” these two words suddenly came out of my mouth, and my throat choked. After years of holding back tears, tears welled up.

I used to think that some people come into our lives only to cause us pain. But then I realized that sometimes, the wounds they leave aren’t because they don’t love, but because they don’t know how to love properly. My stepfather is just such a person; he may have a rough way of speaking, but he silently takes on all the sacrifices. And finally, I call him by the two most sacred words: Dad.

Sitting before the altar that night and calling my stepfather “Papa” for the first time, my heart felt so light. But from then on, a desire arose: I had to do something to prevent the past from repeating itself with other children.

I asked for a job transfer and returned to Lucknow—the place imprinted with the pain and memories of my childhood. My mother’s old house was in a small alley, its roof covered in moss and walls crumbling with lime. My mother was now old and frail, so I decided to live with her and care for her in her final years.

Every morning, I would get up early to sweep the yard—a task my stepfather had left behind when he died. Sometimes, while sweeping, I would imagine him still working quietly somewhere around the house, never complaining.

I vividly remember the scene of my stepfather burning the admission notice years ago. That image haunted me for 15 years, and at one point was my biggest regret. But now, I see it as a reminder: no child’s dreams should be robbed because of poverty.

I started small: teaching neighborhood children, the children of laborers, masons, and bricklayers, for free. At night, my mother’s old living room became the classroom. When he understood a math problem or recited a passage fluently, his eyes would light up, bringing tears to my eyes.

Thanks to my previous stable job in Mumbai, I saved a little money. I created a small fund called the “Satyam Scholarship Fund” (Satyam is my name). This fund specializes in paying tuition fees for underprivileged students who dream of going to university.

Initially, only a few children were helped. But after a year, the fund spread throughout Lucknow, then to surrounding areas of Uttar Pradesh. Many children passed entrance exams to engineering, medical, and teacher training colleges. The day I received heartfelt thank-you letters from my siblings, I remembered my stepfather’s notebook—the diary he had quietly written, calling me “the boy who never called himself father.”

I burst into tears and whispered:
—“Papa, I do this for you. So that no one has to be angry with me, so that no dream is shattered.”

In the last days of my mother’s life, I cared for her wholeheartedly. She would often sit on the veranda, watching the village children run around in the courtyard, smile, and say:
—“If he were alive to see you today, he would smile with satisfaction.”

I feel that way. My stepfather left me neither money nor respect, just a scar in my heart. But over time, that scar became a guiding light.

After fifteen years of resentment, I felt my life had fallen to pieces. But ultimately, it was this pain that helped me deeply understand what sacrifice is, what unconditional love is.

Now, whenever I see poor children holding their admission notices, I find myself 18 years old again – but this time, my tears are not bitter, but bright smiles.

And I know deep down: my stepfather, in his own way, is always watching over me and, smiling, calling me the two most sacred words: son.