I kicked my wife’s son out after she died — ten years later, the truth destroyed me.
I threw the boy’s old rucksack on the floor and looked at him with a cold, empty stare.
‘Go. You’re not my son. My wife is dead. I don’t have to take care of you. Go wherever you want.’
He didn’t cry. He just lowered his head, quietly picked up his worn backpack, turned around… and left without saying a word.
Ten years later, when the truth finally came out, all I wanted was to go back in time.
My name is Rajesh, and I was 36 when my wife Mira suddenly died of a heart attack. She left behind not only me… but also our 12-year-old son Arjun.
But Arjun wasn’t biologically mine. He was Mira’s son from a previous relationship.
When I married Mira at the age of 26, she had already experienced abandonment, the pain of unrequited love, and a single pregnancy.
At the time, I admired her strength. I thought I was being ‘noble’ by accepting a woman with a child. But love that does not come from the heart never lasts.
I raised Arjun as a burden — nothing more.
Everything fell apart when Mira died. There was no one left to connect me to this child.
Arjun remained polite, quiet, reserved. Perhaps deep down he knew that I never truly loved him.
A month after the funeral, I finally said to him:
‘Go. Live or die — I don’t care.’
I expected tears. Pleading words. But no.
He just left. And I felt nothing.
I sold the house and moved away. Life went on. Business was booming. I met another woman — no children, no past.
For several years, I sometimes thought about Arjun. Not out of concern, but out of curiosity. Where was he? Was he still alive?
But time erases even curiosity.
A 12-year-old boy, alone in this world… where could he have gone? I didn’t know. And I didn’t care.
I even thought, ‘If he died… maybe it’s for the best.’
Ten years later.
I got a call from an unknown number.
‘Mr Rajesh? Could you attend the opening of the TPA gallery on MG Road this Saturday? Someone really wants you to come.’
I was about to hang up, but the next sentence froze my hand:
‘Don’t you want to know what happened to Arjun?’
My heart sank. I hadn’t heard that name — Arjun — in ten years.
I paused. Then I replied emotionlessly:
‘I’ll be there.’
The gallery was modern and crowded. I walked in, feeling out of place. The paintings were impressive — oil on canvas, cold, detached, disturbing.
I read the artist’s name: TPA.
Those initials burned me.
‘Hello, Mr Rajesh.’
Standing in front of me was a tall, thin young man in simple clothes — his eyes were deep, inscrutable.
I froze. It was Arjun.
He was no longer the fragile child I had abandoned. Standing in front of me was an accomplished, calm man. Familiar. But so distant.
‘You…’ I managed to say. ‘How…?’
He interrupted me, his voice calm and sharp as glass:
‘I just wanted you to see what my mother left behind. And what you missed.’
He led me to a canvas covered with red cloth.
‘It’s called “Mother”. I’ve never exhibited it. But today… I want you to see it.’
I lifted the cloth.
There she was — Mira. Lying on a hospital bed, pale, fragile. In her hand she held a photograph — the three of us, from the only trip we ever took together.
My legs buckled.
Arjun’s voice did not tremble:
‘Before she died, she kept a diary. I knew you didn’t love me. But I still hoped that one day you would understand. Because… I’m not someone else’s son.’
I stopped breathing.
‘What…?’
‘Yes. I am your son. She was already pregnant when she met you. But she said it was someone else’s son… to test your heart. And then… it was too late to confess.’
‘I found the truth in her diary. Hidden in the attic.’
My world collapsed.
I had rejected my own son.
And now he stood before me — dignified, accomplished — and I… had lost everything.
I had lost my son twice. And the second time… it was forever.
I sat down in the corner of the gallery, devastated. His words cut into my soul like knives:
‘I am your son.’ ‘She was afraid that you would only stay out of a sense of duty.’ ‘She chose silence… because she loved you.’ ‘You left… because you were afraid to be a father.’ .
I considered myself noble for ‘taking in someone else’s child.’ But I was never truly good. Never fair. Never a father.
And when Mira died, I threw Arjun away like trash.
Not knowing… that he was my flesh and blood.
I wanted to speak. But Arjun was already turning away.
I rushed after him.
‘Arjun… wait! If I had known you were my son…’
He looked at me. Calmly. But distantly.
‘I didn’t come here for your apologies. I don’t need you to accept me. I just wanted you to know that my mother never lied. She loved you. And she chose silence… so that you could freely choose love.’
I couldn’t say anything.
‘I don’t hate you. Because if you hadn’t rejected me… I might never have become who I am today.’
He handed me an envelope. Inside was a copy of Mira’s diary.
Her handwriting was shaky, and she wrote:
“If you ever read this, forgive me. I was afraid. Afraid that you would only love me for the sake of the child. But Arjun is our son. As soon as I found out 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.
Silently. Because I had failed as a husband. And as a father. And now… I had nothing left.
I tried to make amends — but it wasn’t easy.
Over the next few weeks, I got closer to Arjun. I sent him messages. I waited outside his gallery. Not so that he would forgive me… just so that I could be near him.
But Arjun didn’t need me anymore.
One day, he agreed to meet me. His voice was softer, but firm.
‘You don’t need to make amends. I’m not angry with you. But I don’t need a father. Because the one I had… decided he didn’t need me.’
I nodded. He was right.
I gave him my savings account — everything I had. I planned to leave it to my new partner… but when I found out the truth, I ended the relationship immediately.
‘I can’t change the past. But if you let me… I’ll be there for you. Silently. Without a title. Without demands. Just knowing that you’re okay… is enough for me.’
Arjun looked at me for a long time.
Then he said:
“I accept. Not for the money. But because my mother still believed that you could be a good person.”
Time is the only thing that cannot be returned.
He was no longer my ‘son.’ But I watched his every step.
Hidden investments in his gallery. Recommendations to collectors. Contacts from my business years.
I couldn’t bring my son back. But I refused to lose him again.
Every year on the anniversary of Mira’s death, he went to the temple. Kneeling before her photograph, he cried:
‘I’m sorry. I was selfish. But I will spend the rest of my life… trying to do the right thing.’
On his 22nd birthday, Arjun was invited to an international exhibition. On his page, he wrote one line:
‘For you, Mum. I did it.’
And below, 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 — meant the end of all the pain… and the beginning of something new.
The final message: some actions are irreparable. But sincere repentance can still touch the heart.
Happiness is not in perfection… but in the courage to face what seemed unforgivable.
