I dropped the boy’s old bag on the floor and stared at him coldly, emotionlessly.

“Go away. I am not your son. Your mother is dead. I have no obligation to take care of you. You have to take care of your life.”

She didn’t cry.
He simply bowed, silently picked up his torn bag, and walked away—no silence, no anger, no tears.

It took me 10 years to find out the truth. And when that was exposed, my whole being almost collapsed.

My name is Rajesh, I was 36 years old when my wife Meera died due to a sudden stroke. He left behind not only me—but also his son Arjun, 12 years old.

Arjun is not my son of blood. He’s Meera’s daughter from a previous relationship—a love she never named. When we got married, she brought with her the memory of the past, and the child born in the midst of silence.

At first, I was proud of myself for “accepting” them. At the time, I thought I was honorable. But love that doesn’t come from the heart—it doesn’t last long.

I didn’t see Arjun as a son, but as a responsibility. There is no tenderness. There is no connection. It was just a reminder of a story where I was late to the scene.

When Meera died, the only fiber that connected Arjun and me was also completely gone. He was a quiet, polite, well-mannered boy. But maybe, he knew—that I didn’t really love him.

A month after the funeral, I told him those words:
“Get away. Whether you’re alive or dead, I don’t care.”

I expected her to cry. Be Compassionate. Asking for any mercy.

But Hindi.

He walked away, while I remained numb.

I sold the house, moved to the city, moved on with my life. Business is booming again. I met another woman—no children, no luggage.

Over the years, I’ve been reminded of Arjun from time to time. Not out of concern, but out of a simple question: “Where is he?” Is it still alive?

Over time, however, even curiosity dies.

One day, the phone rang. The number is not familiar.

“Hello, Mr. Rajesh? Can you attend the grand opening of TPA Gallery on MG Road this Saturday? There’s one person who is very hopeful that you will attend.”

I was about to hang up the call when I heard the woman say the following:

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

My heart was cold. I couldn’t hear the sounds around anymore. Arjun. A name I haven’t mentioned in 10 years.

I answered, briefly, without emotion:
“I’ll go.”

The gallery is modern, crowded. I quietly entered. The paintings are unique—pictures with a cold soul. There is depth. There is a sickness.

I read the artist’s name: T.P.A.

Suddenly, I felt overwhelmed.

“Hello, Mr. Rajesh.”

In front of me was a tall, slender, plainly dressed young man. It was like a mirror that I couldn’t fully see.

Yes, Arjun.

The boy I was kicking out is gone. Before me now was a man who was quiet, dignified, and I could not recognize.

“You…” I was stunned to say. “How…?”

He cut me off. Stiff but calm voice:

“I just wanted to show you what my mother left behind. And what you have left behind.”

He took me to a painting covered in red cloth.

“That’s what I call my mother. I’ve never shown it before. But now… I want you to see it.”

I slowly removed the cloth.

Yes, meera.

lying in a hospital bed. Pale. Moon. In her hand, she held a photograph—us, the three of us—from our only vacation together.

My knees were swollen. I sat down on the floor.

Arjun continued, voice cold:

Before he died, he kept a diary. He knows you don’t love me. But he’s still hopeful—that someday, you’ll understand. Because… I am not another man’s son.”

My breathing stopped.

“Ano…?”

“Yes. I Am Your Son. She was already pregnant when you first met. But he said I was someone else’s son—because he wanted to test your heart. At the end of the day, he was afraid to tell the truth.”

“I found his diary in the old attic. And that’s when I learned everything.”

It felt like the whole world was collapsing around me. I kicked my own son out. And now, here he is before me—whole, triumphant—while I am, nothing.

I lost him twice.
And the second one—it’s lifelong.

I sat quietly in a corner of the gallery. Arjun’s words were like a knife piercing through my heart over and over again:

“I am your son.”
“He was afraid that you would only love him for the sake of the child.”
“He chose to remain silent… Because He loves you.”
“Stay away because you’re scared to love the truth.”

I used to think I was honorable for “accepting” someone else’s child.

But I never loved him as my own son.
I didn’t recognize him. I didn’t treat him as such.

And when Meera died, I dumped her… It seems like useless garbage.

I don’t know… I was his father.

I tried to speak.

“Arjun… Wait a minute… If only I had known then—if only I had known that you were my son—”

He stopped. He looked at me. Gentle, but far from it.

“I’m not here to apologize. “I don’t need a father. I just want you to know that my mom didn’t lie. He loves you. And he chose to remain silent… To see if you can love freely.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I don’t hate you.
Because if you hadn’t kicked me out… I might not have been like this.”

He reached for the envelope. Inside: Meera’s diary.

On one page, using trembling handwriting, it reads:

“If you can read this… Please forgive me. I was scared.
I was afraid that you would only love me for the sake of the child.
Arjun is the son of both of us.
As soon as I found out I was pregnant, I wanted to say it right away.
At the time, however, you weren’t sure. And I was scared.
I hope that if you truly love the child, it doesn’t matter who he comes from.”

I cried silently.

Because I failed as a husband. I failed to be a father.
And now… I had no choice but to repent.

I tried to go home. Over the next few weeks, I sent him a message. I waited for him outside the gallery. Not to apologize—just to get closer.

One day, he agreed to meet.

“You don’t have to pay the price,” he said. “I don’t blame you. I didn’t need a father either. Because my father… I was chosen not to be needed.”

I nodded. True.

I handed him the passbook—everything I had saved.
It used to be for my new partner. But as soon as I found out the truth, I left him immediately.

“I can’t go back to the past. But if you let it… I just wish I was here. Silence. There is no title. There is no demand. As long as I know you’re alright—that’s enough.”

He looked at me for a long time.
Then he said:

“I accept it.
It’s not because of the money.
But because my mom still believes… You can be a good person.”

Time—the only thing that can’t be reversed.

I am no longer a “father.”
I followed him every step of the way.

I silently invested in his gallery. Referring collectors. Shared my business connections. I could no longer have him as a child. But I didn’t want to lose him again.

Every time Meera dies, I visit the temple.
Kneeling down in his image, he whispered:

“Sorry. I have become selfish. But I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to get it right.”

When Arjun turned 22, he was invited to exhibit in an international art show.

On his social media page, he wrote just one line:

“For you, Mom. I’ve arrived.”

And below that—for the first time in ten years—I got a message:

If You Were Free… The exhibit will be open on Saturday.”

I was stunned.

The word “Dad.”
It’s so simple—
but that ended all the pain… And then a new one began.

Final Message:

There are mistakes that cannot be undone.
Sincere repentance can reach the heart.

True happiness does not come from perfection—
but from having the courage to face the sins you have been running away from for a long time.