When the millionaire returned home, he saw his wife crying because she was pregnant. He was astonished by what he saw.
There are times when a gorgeous house hides the worst difficulties, such when wealth and success seem to promise a perfect life. David Whitman, a businessman who made his own money, thought he had built an unbreakable environment for his family.
I threw the boy’s old schoolbag on the floor and gave him a cold, distant look. He was twelve years old.
He didn’t cry. He didn’t utter a word. He simply lowered his head, picked up his broken backpack, turned it around, and left.
When the truth came out ten years later, I longed to go back in time with all my heart.
I am Rajesh. Meera, my wife, died of a stroke that came on abruptly when I was 36. She had more than just me; she also had a kid named Arjun who was 12 years old.
But Arjun wasn’t my real son. He was Meera’s son from a different relationship.
Meera was 26 when I married her. She had previously been through a lot of hardship, like a nameless love and a pregnancy she had to deal with on her own.
“Go.” I didn’t care if I survived or died.
I imagined he would cry and beg. But he didn’t do it. He left.
I didn’t feel anything. After I sold my house, I moved. Things carried on as they always do. The company did well. I met another woman who didn’t have any kids or difficulties.
For a few years, I thought of Arjun from time to time. Not because I’m scared, but because I’m interested. Where was he at the moment? Was he still alive?
But that curiosity went away with time.
If a 12-year-old child were all alone, where could he go? I didn’t know and I didn’t care.
He even said, “Maybe it’s for the best that he’s dead.”
I got a call from a number I didn’t know ten years later.
“Hey, Mr. Rajesh? Could you please go to the grand inauguration of the TPA Gallery on MG Road this Saturday? “Someone very special is waiting for you.”
I was going to hang up, but the next statement stopped me:
“Don’t you want to know what happened to Arjun?”
The name—Arjun— I hadn’t heard from them in ten years. My chest felt tight.
I took a deep breath and said in a flat voice, “I’m going.”
A lot of people were in the modern gallery. When I walked in, I felt like I didn’t belong. The oil paintings on canvas were very striking: cold, far away, and menacing. The artist’s name was TPA.
The initials hurt me.
“Hello, Mr. Rajesh.”
A young man who was tall and thin and wearing ordinary clothes stood in front of me. He stared into her eyes and didn’t utter a word.
I paused. Arjun was the one.
He wasn’t the frail kid I had left behind anymore. In front of me was a calm and successful man.
“I wanted you to see what my mom left behind.”
“And what you left behind.”
He led me to a canvas that was covered in red fabric.
“It’s called Mother.” I haven’t shown it to anyone yet. But I want you to see it today.
I lift the cloth.
Meera was there. Lying in a hospital bed, looking pale and emaciated. She had a picture of the three of us from the one time we all went somewhere together.
My knees gave way.
Arjun’s voice kept calm.
“Before he died, he wrote in a diary. He knew you didn’t care about me. But dad still believed that one day you will get it.
“Because I am not the son of another man.”
“What?”
“Yes. I am your son. She was already pregnant when you met her. But she claimed it was someone else’s to see how you felt. And then it was too late to say anything.
“I found the truth in her journal.” No one can see the journal because it is hidden in the attic.
Things fell apart around me. I had said no to my son. And here he was standing in front of me, prosperous and deserved, while I had lost everything.
I had lost him twice. And this time, it was for good.
I sat in a corner of the gallery, my heart broken. His comments hurt my heart like swords slashing it.
“You’re my son.”
“She thought you only wanted me because of the baby.”
“You didn’t say anything because I loved you.”
“You left because you were afraid of what you had to do.”
I used to believe I was brave for “taking in” another man’s child. But I never really was nice. That’s not right. I never had a dad.
When Meera died, I told Arjun to leave me alone. I didn’t know he was related to me.
I went after him. “Arjun, wait… If I had known you were mine—
He looked at me calmly, but not very closely.
“I’m not here to hear you say you’re sorry.” You don’t need to complain.
“I wanted you to know that my mom was always honest.” She cared about you. She decided to be quiet so you could choose love freely.
I couldn’t say anything.
“I don’t hate you.” Maybe I am who I am now because you said no to me.
He handed me an envelope. Inside was a copy of Meera’s diary.
She scribbled in shaky letters, “Please forgive me if you ever read this.” I was afraid. I was afraid you would just love me because of the baby. But we have Arjun as our child.
I cried. I cried without saying anything.
I didn’t feel like a good husband. As a father. Now I felt lost and didn’t know what to do next.
I tried to make things better, but it was hard. In the weeks that followed, I got in touch with Arjun.
I wrote him a note. He was waiting for me outside his gallery. Not to forgive, but just to be close.
But Arjun didn’t want me anymore.
He told me that he would see me one day. His voice was firm but friendly.
“You don’t have to pay it back.” I don’t blame you for anything. But I don’t want a dad. Because the one I had didn’t want me.
I nodded. He was right.
I gave her my savings account, which was all I had. I was going to present it to my new girlfriend, but when I found out the truth, I broke up with her the next day.
“I can’t go back to the past.” But if you let me, I’ll be there for you. I will help you without making any noise. No names. Without requests.
“Just knowing you’re good is enough.”
Arjun looked at me for a long time. He said, “I’ll agree.” He didn’t care about the money.
“But my mom thought you could still be a good person.”
