I threw the old backpack on the wooden floor, glaring at the 12-year-old boy with cold eyes.

“Go away. You are not my son. My wife is dead, I have no obligation to raise you anymore. Go wherever you want.”

He did not cry. He just bowed his head low, picked up the torn backpack, and turned away, without a word of begging.

Ten years later, when the truth was revealed, I only wished time could be turned back.

I am Henry, 36 years old when my wife—Maya—passed away from a stroke. She passed away too suddenly, leaving me and a child named Tyler—12 years old. But Tyler was not my biological son… at least, I believed so. I married Maya when she was 26, a woman who had experienced an anonymous love affair and was pregnant alone.

Back then, I loved her. I accepted even a child that was not mine. But that “acceptance” didn’t last, because it didn’t come from the heart. I raised Tyler out of obligation.

Everything fell apart when Maya died. There was no one to pull me closer to him. Tyler was quiet, withdrawn—polite but distant. Maybe he sensed: I never truly loved him.

Just a month after the funeral, I said that to him.

“Get out of the house. Whether you live or die is your business.”

I thought he would cry, beg. No. He left. And I—didn’t feel any remorse.

I sold my old house in the Houston suburbs, moved to another area, did well in business, had another woman by my side, and no children. The first few years, I still thought about Tyler from time to time—not out of worry, but out of curiosity: where was he? How was he living?

Then time killed that curiosity. Where would a 12-year-old—no family, no relatives—go? I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. I used to think: if it died, maybe… it would be a relief.

Until exactly ten years later.

I received a call from an unknown number

“Hello, Henry. Can you come to the opening of TPH Gallery on West 22nd Street, Chelsea, New York this Saturday? Someone really wants you there.”

I was about to hang up. But the last sentence made me pause:

“Don’t you want to know about Tyler?”

My heart sank. Tyler—a name I hadn’t dared to mention for ten years. I replied curtly:

“I’ll come.”

The opening was crowded, the space modern. On the walls were oil paintings that gave off a cold, lonely feeling. Signed by the artist: TPH—three haunting letters.

“Hello, Henry.”
A young man, tall and thin, dressed simply, with deep, deep eyes stood before me.

I was stunned. Tyler.

He was no longer the skinny boy he used to be. He had become a mature man. Familiar yet distant.

“T… Tyler… why—”
He interrupted, softly but sharply:
“I just want you to see what my mother left behind. And… what you abandoned.”

Tyler led me to the painting covered with a red cloth.

“It’s called Mother. I’ve never published it. But today, just for you, I want you to see it.”

I pulled the cloth.
In front of me was a picture of a woman lying on a hospital bed, her face haggard, her hands clutching a photo of the three of us—the only time we went out together.

I fell to my knees.

Tyler’s voice was even:
“Before she died, my mother left me a diary. She knew you didn’t love me, but she still believed that one day you would understand. Because… I’m not some other man’s child. I’m your child.”

I choked.

“W… what…?”

“Yes. Mom didn’t dare say it—for fear of disrupting the stable life she had just had. She brought me here before the wedding, calling me her stepchild to test her. Later, it was too late to say anything. I only found out the truth when I found the diary in the attic of my old apartment.”

I couldn’t hear anything anymore. Everything collapsed. I had kicked my own son out of the house. And now, he stood before me—calm, successful—while I was left empty-handed.

I had lost him twice. The second time, forever.

I tried to speak, but Tyler had turned away. I ran after him, my voice trembling:
“Tyler… wait… If—if Dad had known I was his blood, things would have been different…”

He looked at me, calm and distant:
“I didn’t come to hear excuses, or to be taken back. I just wanted you to know: Mom didn’t lie. She kept quiet because she loved—and you let go because you were afraid of commitment.”

I was speechless. It continued:
“I don’t hate you. If you hadn’t chased me away, I probably wouldn’t have had the determination to have this day.”

Tyler handed me an envelope: a copy of Maya’s diary, the words trembling:

“If one day I’m gone and you read these lines… please forgive me. I hid it because I was afraid you’d love me out of responsibility. But Tyler is our child. I wanted to say it, but then I stopped. I just hope you truly love Tyler—blood or not doesn’t matter anymore.”

I cried—no sound. Everything was broken: I hadn’t fulfilled my responsibilities as a husband, as a father… and now, everything was gone.

The following days, I sought out Tyler—sent messages, waited for hours at the gallery. Not to ask for forgiveness, but just to do something for him.

Tyler was no longer the child who needed me. One day he came to see me, his face no longer cold like the first day, but firm:

“You don’t need to make amends. I don’t resent you. But… I don’t need Dad. Because Dad—chose not to need me.”

I nodded—because it was right.

I gave him a savings book—all the money I had. I had planned to leave it to the “new person,” but after learning the truth, we broke up the next day. I said:

“Dad can’t take back the past. But if you allow me… Dad will stand behind me, silently supporting everything you do. No title, no pressure. Just know that you’re healthy and living well.”

Tyler looked at me for a long time, then nodded:
“I’ll accept—not for the money. But for Mom. Mom once believed that you could be a good person.”

Time—the only thing that can’t be turned back.

I’m not allowed to call him “Dad.” But I still followed Tyler’s every move: anonymously investing, introducing some old connections in the New York business community, quietly supporting the gallery.

Every year on the anniversary of Maya’s death, I drove to Greenwood Cemetery, placed a bouquet of white lilies and lit a small candle in the chapel. In front of her headstone, I whispered:

“I’m sorry. I was too selfish. I will spend the rest of my life making amends.”

When Tyler turned 22, he was invited to an international exhibition in SoHo. On his personal page, he wrote:

“To Mom. I did it.”

And below that, for the first time in 10 years, he sent me a private message:

“If you have time… the opening is next Saturday.”

I was speechless. Just one word “Dad”—so simple—but it was the end of years of pain, and the beginning of a new beginning: fatherhood, albeit belated.

Final Message:
There are mistakes that cannot be fixed. But sincere repentance can still touch the heart. Happiness does not come from being perfect, but from daring to face and fix things that seem irreparable.