My name is Rajesh. I was 36 years old when my wife, Meera, passed away suddenly from a stroke. Her death shattered me, but it left behind more than just grief. It left behind her son, Arjun—a boy of twelve.
But Arjun wasn’t biologically mine. At least, that’s what I believed. He was the child of a relationship Meera had before we met. When Meera and I married, she was already a mother. I told myself I was noble for “accepting” another man’s child. But the truth was harsher: I never truly accepted him.
I can still remember the day it happened.
I threw his old school bag on the floor. My eyes were cold as ice. Arjun stood there, silent. He didn’t cry, didn’t argue. He just lowered his head, picked up the broken backpack, turned away, and walked out of the house without a word.
I expected him to beg me to let him stay. Instead, he left.
And I felt nothing.
Soon after, I sold the house and moved away. I told myself life had to go on. My business grew, money came in, and I eventually met another woman—one without children, one without the baggage of a past.
For a few years, thoughts of Arjun would surface now and then. Not out of guilt, but out of curiosity. Was he still alive? Where was he now? A boy of twelve, alone in the world—what could have happened to him? But each time the thought came, I pushed it away. And eventually, even the curiosity faded.
I never spoke his name again.
Until one day, ten years later.
I received a phone 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 you.”
I was about to hang up when the voice added, “Don’t you want to know what happened to Arjun?”
That name. Arjun. I hadn’t heard it in a decade. My chest tightened. I took a long breath and forced my voice to remain flat.
“I’ll be there.”
The gallery was modern and buzzing with people when I arrived. The paintings lining the walls were powerful—oil on canvas, each one sharp, cold, and haunting. I looked at the artist’s name: TPA.
Something about those initials stung me.
“Hello, Mr. Rajesh.”
I turned. A tall, thin young man stood before me. His clothes were simple, his expression calm but unreadable. Yet his eyes—deep and steady—were familiar.
I froze. It was Arjun.
No longer the fragile child I had abandoned, he now stood before me as a confident man.
“I wanted you to see what my mother left behind,” he said quietly. “And what you left behind.”
He led me toward a large canvas draped with a red cloth.
“This one is called Mother,” he explained. “I’ve never shown it before. But today, I want you to see it.”
With trembling hands, I lifted the cloth.
The painting struck me like a blow.
There she was—Meera—lying pale and fragile in a hospital bed. In her hands, she held a small photograph of the three of us, taken during our only trip together.
My knees buckled.
Arjun’s voice was steady.
“She wrote a diary before she died. She knew you didn’t love me. But she still believed that one day you would understand.”
Then he looked at me, his words sharp and clear.
“Because… I am not another man’s son.”
I stared at him, stunned. “What… what do you mean?”
“Yes,” Arjun said. “I’m your son. She was already pregnant when you met her. But she told you the child was from someone else—to test your heart. By the time she wanted to confess, it was too late. I found the truth in her diary, hidden in the attic.”
The world collapsed around me. My heart pounded as I realized the horror of what I had done. I had rejected my own son—cast him aside when he needed me most.
I had lost him once when Meera died. And I lost him again by my own choice.
Now, standing before me, he was strong, successful, complete… while I was hollow.
I tried to speak, but Arjun had already turned away. I stumbled after him.
“Arjun, please wait! If I had known you were mine—”
He stopped and looked at me calmly, his eyes distant.
“I’m not here for your apologies,” he said. “I don’t need you to explain yourself. I wanted you to know that my mother never lied about loving you. She chose silence because she wanted your love to be free, not bound to obligation.”
My throat tightened.
“I don’t hate you,” Arjun continued. “In fact, if you hadn’t rejected me, maybe I wouldn’t have become who I am today.”
He reached into his pocket and handed me an envelope. Inside was a copy of Meera’s diary.
In her shaky handwriting, the words cut through me:
“If you ever read this, please forgive me. I was afraid you would only love me for the child. But Arjun is our son.”
The tears came silently. I had failed as a husband, and as a father. And now, I had nothing left but regret.
In the weeks that followed, I tried to reach out. I sent messages. Sometimes he answered, sometimes he didn’t. Eventually, he agreed to meet me again.
We sat together outside his gallery one evening. He listened patiently, but when I finished, he shook his head.
“You don’t need to atone,” he said gently. “I don’t blame you anymore. But I don’t need a father. Because the one I had chose not to need me.”
His words pierced me, but I knew they were true.
I nodded slowly. “I can’t undo the past. But if you’ll allow it, I’d like to be near. Not as your father, not with any title. Just… someone who supports you. Knowing you are well is enough for me.”
For a long time, he said nothing. Then he looked at me with the faintest of smiles.
“I’ll accept,” he said at last. “Not for money. Not for anything else. But because my mother always believed you could still be a good man.”
And in that moment, I realized: forgiveness wasn’t about erasing the past. It was about choosing what to do with the time we still had left.
Note: This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only.