I had thrown away my own son.
And now, he stood before me—dignified, successful—while I had lost everything.
I had lost my son twice.
And the second time… forever.
I sat in a corner of the gallery, devastated.
His words echoed like knives in my soul:
“I am your son.”
“She feared you would only stay out of duty.”
“She chose to remain silent… because she loved you.”
“You left because you feared the responsibility.”
I once thought I was noble for “accepting” another’s child.
But I was never truly kind. Never fair. Never a father.
And when Meera died, I discarded Arjun—as something worthless.
Not knowing… that he was my own flesh and blood.
I tried to speak.
But Arjun had already turned away.
I ran after him.
“Arjun… wait… If I had known—if I had known you were mine—”
He looked back. Serene. But distant.
“I’m not here for your apologies.
I don’t need you to acknowledge me.
I just wanted you to know—that my mother never lied.
She loved you. And she chose silence… so that you could choose to love freely.”
I couldn’t say anything.
“I don’t hate you.
Because if you hadn’t pushed me away…
Perhaps I would never have become who I am today.”
He handed me an envelope. Inside—a copy of Meera’s diary.
In his shaky handwriting, he had written:
“If you ever read this—please forgive me.
I was afraid.
Afraid that you would only love me for the child.
But Arjun is our son.
From the moment I knew 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. As a father.
And now… I had nothing left.
I tried to make amends—but it wasn’t easy.
In the weeks that followed, I sought out Arjun.
I sent him messages. I waited outside his gallery. Not out of forgiveness—just to be close.
But Arjun didn’t need me anymore.
One day, he agreed to see me.
His voice was softer, but firm.
“You don’t need to atone.
I don’t blame you.
But I don’t need a father.
Because the one I had… chose not to need me.”
I nodded.
He was right.
I handed him a savings account—everything I had.
I had once planned to leave my new partner—but when I learned the truth, I broke up with her the next day.
“I can’t take back the past.
But if you allow me… I’ll be behind you.
Silently. Without titles. Without demands.
Just knowing you’re okay—that’s enough for me.”
Arjun looked at me for a long moment.
Then he said:
“I’ll accept it.
Not for the money.
But because my mother believed you could still be a good man.”
Time—the only thing you can never get back.
I was no longer a “father.”
But I followed his every step.
I quietly invested in his gallery. I recommended collectors. I shared contacts from my business days.
I couldn’t get my son back.
But I refused to lose him again.
Every year, on the anniversary of Meera’s death, I visited the temple.
Kneeling before her picture, I wept:
“I’m sorry. I was selfish.
But I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to do well.”
The year Arjun turned 22, he was invited to exhibit at an international art exhibition.
On his personal page, he wrote a single sentence:
“For you, Mom. I did it.”
And underneath—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—
and yet, it marked the end of all the pain… and the beginning of something new.
Final Message:
Some mistakes can never be undone.
But genuine regret can still reach the heart.
Happiness is not in perfection—
but in having the courage to face what once seemed unforgivable.