Ten years later, a truth was revealed that devastated me. 

I abruptly threw the child’s old backpack to the ground and looked at the 12-year-old child with cold, distant eyes.

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

She didn’t cry.
She simply bowed her head, silently picked up her torn bag, turned around and walked away, without saying a single word.

Ten years later, when the truth was finally revealed, I wished more than anything that I could go back in time.

My name is   Rajesh  and I was 36 years old when my wife,   Meera  , passed away from a repeated stroke. She
not only left me, but also a    12-year-old son named Arju .

But Arju was not biologically mine.
He was Meera’s son from an external relationship.

When I married Meera, at 26, she had already gone through heartbreak: a love without a name, a pregnancy that she carried alone.

Eп aqυel eпtoпces, admiraba su fυerza.Me dijo que пoble por “aceptarla” a ella y su hijo.

But the love that passes from the heart does not endure.

I raised Arju as a responsibility, nothing more.

Everything fell apart when Meera died.
There was no one left who had kept me connected with the boy.

Arju remained silent, distant, always polite.
Perhaps he knew, deep down, that I truly loved him.

One month after the funeral, I finally said it.

—Vete. Si vives o mυeres, пo me iпcυmbe.

I expected her to cry. To beg.

But he didn’t.

He simply left.
And I felt nothing.

I sold the house and moved.
Life went on. The business prospered. I met another woman, had no luggage or children.

For years, I thought from time to time about Arju. Not out of concern, but out of curiosity.

Where was he now? Was he alive?

But time erases even curiosity.

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

I didn’t know.
I didn’t care.

I even said to myself,   “If he’s dead, maybe it’s for the best.”

Ten years later.

I received a call from an unknown number.

Hello, Mr. Rajesh. Could you attend the grand opening of the TPA Gallery on MG Road this Saturday?
Someone is really looking forward to your attendance.

I was about to hang up, but the next sentence left me speechless:

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

Seпtí upa opresióп eп el pecho.
Ese nombre,   ArjuЅп   , пo lo había oído eп diez años.

I paused. Then I answered, emphatically:

“I will go.”

The gallery was modern and full of people. I felt strangely out of place.

The paintings were striking: oil on canvas, cold, distant, evocative.

I read the artist’s name:   TPA

Those iпcials hurt meп.

Hello, Mr. Rajesh.

A tall, thin young man, dressed in simple clothes, was standing in front of me; his eyes were deep and unreadable.

Me coпgelé.
Era Arjυп.

The fragile child I had abandoned was left behind. Before me stood a serene and accomplished man.

Familiar. And yet, so distant.

“You…” I stammered. “How…?”

He interrupted me, with his voice calm and sharp as crystal.

I just wanted you to see what my mother left behind.
And what   you left   behind.

I led myself to a canvas wrapped in red fabric.

Her name is   Mother  . I’ve never shown her before.
But today I want you to  see her   .

I lifted the cloth.

There was Meera. Lying in a hospital bed, pale and frail.

Eп sυ maпo, υпa foto de las tres del пico viaje qυe hizo jυпtas.

My knees gave way.

Arjupo’s voice wavered:

Before dying, he wrote a diary. I knew you didn’t love me. But I still believed that one day you would understand.

Because… I am not another man’s daughter.

I stopped breathing.

“Qυé…?”

Yes. I am   your   son. She was already pregnant when you met her. But she told you I was someone else’s, to test your heart.

And then, it was too late to confess.

I found the truth in his diary. Hidden in the old attic.

The world collapsed around me.

I had thrown out my own son.

And now he was in front of me —I mean, successful— while I had lost everything.

I had lost my son twice.
And the second time, it was forever.

I sat down in the gallery, devastated.
His words echoed in my mind like knives piercing my soul:

“I am your son.” “I was afraid you would only stay out of obligation.” “He chose silence… because he loved you.”

“You distanced yourself out of fear of responsibility.”

Once I thought I was bad for “accepting” another man’s son.
But he was truly kind. He was never fair. He was never a father.

And when Meera died, I discarded Arju, as if he were something undesirable.

If I knew it… it was   my own blood  .

I tried to speak,
but Arju had already turned around.

I ran after him.

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

He looked back. Calmly. But distantly.

I’m not here to apologize. I don’t need you to blame me. I just wanted you to know that my mother lied.

He loved you. And he chose silence… so that you could choose love freely.

I was speechless.

I don’t hate you. Because if I did, you would have pushed me away…

perhaps I would have become who I am today.

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

If you ever read this, please forgive me. I was afraid.

I was afraid you only wanted me   for   the baby.

But Arju is   our   son. From the moment I knew I was pregnant, I wanted to tell you. But you weren’t sure. And I was afraid. I hoped that if you truly loved him, the truth wouldn’t matter.

I cried.

He was silent. Because he had failed as a husband. As a father.

And now… I was left with nothing.

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

In the following weeks, I contacted Arju.
I wrote to him. I waited outside his gallery. Not to ask for forgiveness, but to be near.

But Arju no longer needed me.

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

You don’t need to atone for your sins. I don’t blame you. But I do need a father.

Because the one I had… decided not to need me.

Sixteenth.
Now it’s time.

I gave her my savings account: everything I had.
I had planned to leave it to my new partner, but when I found out the truth, I broke off the relationship the next day.

I cannot recover the past. But if you allow me… I will support you. Silence. Yes title. Yes demands.

Just knowing that you are well is enough.

Arju looked at me for a long time.

Then he said:

I accept it. Not for the money.

Yes, because my mother believed that you could still be a good man.

Time is the only thing we can recover.

I wasn’t a “father” anymore.
But I followed every step he took.

I discreetly poured my work into his gallery. I recommended collectors. I shared contacts from my professional days.

I couldn’t get my son back.
But I kept losing 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 fix it.

The year Arju turned 22, he was invited to exhibit at an international art show.
On his personal page, he wrote a short sentence:

—For you, Mom. I made it myself.