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 did not cry. He simply lowered his head, picked up his broken backpack, turned it around, and walked away without saying a word.

Ten years later, when the truth was finally revealed, I wished with all my being that I could go back in time.

My name is Rajesh, and I was 36 years old when my wife, Meera, died of a sudden stroke. She left behind more than me: a 12-year-old son named Arjun.

But Arjun was not biologically mine. He was Meera’s son from a previous relationship.

Meera was 26 years old when I married her. She had already lived a painful experience: a love without a name, a pregnancy that 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’s gone.

I didn’t feel anything. I sold my house and moved out. Life went on. Business prospered. I met another woman without burdens, without children.

For several years, I had sporadic thoughts about Arjun. Not out of anxiety, but out of curiosity. Where would he be now? Would he still be alive?

However, over time, even that interest disappeared.

A 12-year-old boy, alone in the world, where could he go? I didn’t know or care.

He even told me: “If he is dead, maybe it is the best”.

Ten years later, I received a call from an unknown number.

“Hello, Mr. Rajesh? Could you attend the grand opening of the TPA Gallery on MG Road this Saturday? Someone very special is waiting for him to come.”

I was about to hang up 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 going to go.”

The gallery was modern and crowded. I walked in, feeling strangely out of place. The paintings were shocking—oil on canvas, cold, distant, and terrifying. I read the name of the artist: T.P.A.

The initials hurt me.

“Hello, Mr. Rajesh.”

A tall, thin young man, dressed in simple clothes, stood in front of me. His gaze was deep and expressionless.

I froze. It was Arjun.

I was no longer the fragile child I abandoned. In front of me was a composed and successful man.

“I wanted you to see what my mother left behind.”

“And what you left behind.”

He took me to a canvas covered with a red cloth.
“Her name is Mother. I’ve never shown it before. But today I want you to see it.”

I remove the canvas.

There she was: Meera. Pale and emaciated, lying in a hospital bed. He held a photograph of the three of us together, of our only trip together.

My knees gave way.

Arjun’s voice did not waver.
“Before he died, he wrote a diary. I knew you didn’t love me. But I still believed that, one day, you would understand.”

“Because… I am not another man’s son.”

“What…?”
“Yes. I’m your son. She was already pregnant when you met her. But he told you it was someone else’s, to test your heart. And then, it was too late to confess.”

“I found the truth in his diary. Hidden in the old attic.”

The world collapsed around me. I had rejected my own son. And now, he was in front of me—worthy, successful—while I had lost everything.

He had lost it twice. And the second time, it was forever.

I sat in a corner of the gallery, devastated. His words echoed in my mind like swords piercing my soul.

“I am your son.”

“She was afraid that you would only want me for the child.”

“You chose silence… because he loved you.”

“You left because you feared responsibility.”

I used to think that I was heroic for “accepting” another man’s child. But I was never really nice. Never fair. I never had a father.

When Meera died, I rejected Arjun as if he was undesirable. Not knowing… that it was my own blood.

I ran after him. “Arjun, please wait… If I had known you were mine—”

He looked at me calmly, but distantly.
“I’m not here for your apology. I don’t need you to claim me.”

“I wanted you to know that my mother never lied. She loved you. Choose silence, allowing you to choose love freely.”

I couldn’t speak.

“I don’t hate you. If you hadn’t rejected me, maybe I wouldn’t have become who I am now.”

He 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 afraid. I was afraid you would only love me for the child. But Arjun is our son.”

Cried. 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 following weeks, I contacted Arjun.

I sent him a message. He was waiting for me outside his gallery. Not for forgiveness, but for being close.

But Arjun didn’t need me anymore.

One day, he agreed to meet me. His voice was kind but firm.

“You don’t need to atone for yourself. I don’t blame you. But I don’t need a father. Because the one I had… He chose not to need me.”

I nodded. I was right.

I handed him a savings book — everything I had. I had once planned to leave it to my new partner, but after learning the truth, I broke up with her the next day.

“I can’t get the past back. But if you let me… I’ll be by your side. In silence. No titles. No lawsuits.”

“Knowing yourself well is enough.”

Arjun stared at me for a long time. Then he spoke:
“I will accept. Not for money.”

“But my mother believed you could still be a good man.”