“Go away. You’re not my son. My wife is dead. I have no obligation to take care of you. Go wherever you want.”

He didn’t cry.
He did not beg.
He just bowed his head, picked up his torn backpack, and left quietly — without saying a word.

Ten years later, when the truth came out, I wished more than ever 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.
He didn’t leave just me — but also a boy named Arjun, 12.

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

By the time I married Meera at age 26, she had already been through great pain — a nameless love, a pregnancy she faced alone.

Back then, I admired their strength.
I told myself that I was noble for “accepting” her and her son as well.
But the love that is not born from the heart… it does not last.

I raised Arjun as a responsibility — nothing more.

Everything fell apart when Meera died.
There was no one to hold me together with the child anymore.

Arjun was always quiet, distant, respectful.
Maybe I knew — deep down — that I never really loved him.

A month after the funeral, I finally told him:

“Go away. Whether you live or die, I don’t care.”

I expected him to cry. To beg.

But he didn’t.

He’s gone.
And I didn’t feel anything.

I sold the house and moved out.
Life went on. The business prospered. I met another woman — no burdens, no children.

For a few years, I would sometimes think of Arjun.
Not out of concern — just out of curiosity.
Where would it be? Would he still be alive?

But time erases even curiosity.

A 12-year-old boy, alone in the world — where could he go?

I didn’t know that.
I didn’t care.

I even said to myself,
“If he died, maybe it was for the best. At least I wouldn’t suffer anymore.”

Ten years later.

I received a call from an unknown number.

“Hello, Mr. Rajesh? Could you attend the opening of the TPA Gallery on MG Street this Saturday?
Someone is really looking forward to seeing him there.”

I was about to hang up — but the following sentence froze me:

“Don’t you want to know what happened to Arjun?”

My chest tightened.
That name — Arjun — I hadn’t heard in ten years.

I paused. Then I replied, dryly:

“I’ll go.”

The gallery was modern and crowded.
I walked in feeling out of place.
The paintings were shocking — oil on canvas, cold, distant, unsettling.

I read the name of the artist: T.P.A.

Those initials hit me.

“Hello, Mr. Rajesh.”

A tall, thin young man, dressed simply, stood in front of me — with a deep, indecipherable gaze.

Me freezes.
It was Arjun.

He was no longer the frail child he had abandoned.
In front of me was a composed, successful man. Familiar, and yet so distant.

“You…” I stammered. “How…?”

He interrupted me—his voice calm, sharp as glass.

“I just wanted you to see what my mother left behind.
And what you decided to abandon.”

He led me to a canvas covered with a red cloth.

“It’s called Mother. I’ve never shown it before.
But today I want you to see it.”

I lifted the cloth.

There she was—Meera.
In a hospital bed, pale and frail.
In her hand, a photo—of the three of us, on the only trip we’d ever taken together.

My knees buckled.

Arjun’s voice did not tremble:

“Before he died, he wrote a diary.
He knew you didn’t love me.
But he still believed—that one day you would understand.
Because… I am not another man’s son.”

I stopped breathing.

“That…?”

“Yes. I’m your son.
She was already pregnant when she met you.
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 fell apart for me.

I had thrown out my own son.

And now, he stood before me—worthy, successful—while I had lost everything.

I had lost my son twice.
And the second time… forever.

I sat in a corner of the gallery, devastated.
His words echoed like knives in my soul:

“I’m your son.”
“She was afraid you’d only stay out of duty.”
“She chose to remain silent… because she loved you.”
“You left because you feared the responsibility.”

I once thought I was noble for “accepting” another’s child.
But I was never truly kind. Never fair. Never a father.

And when Meera died, I discarded Arjun — as something worthless.

Without knowing… that it was my own blood.

I tried to speak.
But Arjun had already turned away.

I ran after him.

“Arjun… wait… If I had known—if I had known you were mine—”

He looked back. Serene. But distant.

“I’m not here for your apologies.
I don’t need you to acknowledge me.
I just wanted you to know—that my mother never lied.
She loved you. And she chose silence… so that you could choose to love freely.”

I couldn’t say anything.

“I don’t hate you.
Because if you hadn’t pushed me away…
I might never have become who I am today.”

He handed me an envelope. Inside—a copy of Meera’s diary.
In her shaky handwriting, she had written:

“If you ever read this—please forgive me.
I was afraid.
Afraid that you would only love me for the child.
But Arjun is our son.
From the moment I knew I was pregnant, I wanted to tell you.
But you hesitated. And I was afraid.
I hoped that if you truly loved him, the truth wouldn’t matter.”

I cried.

In silence.
Because I had failed as a husband. As a father.
And now… I had nothing left.

I tried to fix it — but it wasn’t easy.

In the following weeks, I sought out Arjun.
I texted him. I waited outside his gallery. Not out of forgiveness—just to be close.

But Arjun didn’t need me anymore.

One day, he agreed to see me.
His voice was softer, but firm.

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

I nodded.
He was right.

I handed her a savings account—everything I had.
I’d once planned to leave it with my new partner—but when I learned the truth, I broke up with her the next day.

“I can’t take back the past.
But if you let me… I’ll be behind you.
Silently. Without titles. Without demands.
Just knowing you’re okay—that’s enough for me.”

Arjun looked at me for a long moment.

Then he said:

“I’ll accept it.
Not for the money.
But because my mother believed you could still be a good man.”

Time — the only thing you can never get back.

I was no longer a “father.”
But I followed his every step.

I quietly invested in his gallery. I recommended collectors to him. I shared contacts from my business days.

I couldn’t get my son back.
But I refused to lose him again.

Every year, on the anniversary of Meera’s death, I visited the temple.
Kneeling before her photo, I wept:

“I’m sorry. I was selfish.
But I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it right.”

The year Arjun turned 22, he was invited to exhibit at an international art exhibition.
On his personal page, he wrote a single sentence:

“For you, Mom. I did it.”

And underneath — for the first time in ten years — he sent me a message:

“If you’re free… the exhibition opens this Saturday.”

I froze.

The word “Dad” — so simple —
and yet, it marked the end of all the pain… and the beginning of something new.

Final message:

Some mistakes can never be undone.
But genuine repentance can still reach the heart.

Happiness is not in perfection—
but in having the courage to face what once seemed unforgivable.