When the millionaire got home, he found his pregnant wife crying. What he saw shocked him.
Sometimes, a beautiful house conceals the worst problems, as wealth and achievement seem to guarantee a perfect existence. David Whitman, a self-made millionaire, believed he had created an unshakeable world for his family.
I threw the boy’s old schoolbagon the floor and stared at him with icy, distant eyes. He was 12 years old.
He didn’t shed a tear. He didn’t say anything. He just bent his head, picked up his damaged backpack, turned it around, and went away.
I wanted to go back in time with all my heart when the truth came out ten years later.
My name is Rajesh. I was 36 when my wife, Meera, died of a stroke that came on suddenly. She had more than simply me; she had a 12-year-old son named Arjun.
But Arjun wasn’t my biological child. He was Meera’s son from a different relationship.
When I married Meera, she was 26. She had already been through a lot of pain: a nameless love and a pregnancy she had to deal with on her own.
“Leave.” I didn’t care if I lived or died.
I thought he would cry and beg. But he didn’t. He went.
I didn’t feel anything. I moved after selling my house. Things went on as usual. The business did well. I met another woman who didn’t have any kids or problems.
I thought about Arjun occasionally for a few years. Not because I’m worried, but because I’m curious. Where was he now? Was he still alive?
But that interest faded over time.
Where could a 12-year-old child go if he were all alone? I didn’t know, and I didn’t care.
He even told me, “Maybe it’s for the best if he’s dead.”
Ten years later, I got a call from a number I didn’t know.
“Hi, Mr. Rajesh? This Saturday, could you kindly go to the grand opening of the TPA Gallery on MG Road?” Someone very special is waiting for you.”
I was about to hang up until the next sentence made me stop:
“Don’t you want to know what happened to Arjun?”
The name—Arjun—I hadn’t heard from them in ten years. My chest got constricted.
I took a big breath and said in a monotone voice, “I’m going.”
There were many people in the modern gallery. I walked in and felt like I didn’t belong. The oil paintings on canvas were striking: cold, distant, and scary. The name of the artist was TPA.
The initials hurt me.
“Hi, Mr. Rajesh.”
A young man who was tall and slim and wearing plain clothes stepped in front of me. He looked deep into her eyes and didn’t say anything.
I stopped. It was Arjun.
He wasn’t the weak youngster I had left behind anymore. There was a calm and accomplished man in front of me.
“I wanted you to see what my mom left behind.”
“And what you left behind.”
He took me to a canvas that was covered in red cloth.
“It’s called Mother.” I haven’t shown it to anyone before. But I want you to see it today.
I raise the cloth.
There she was: Meera. Lying in a hospital bed, pale and thin. She had a picture of the three of us from our only trip together.
My knees gave out.
Arjun’s voice stayed steady.
“Before he died, he kept a diary. He knew you didn’t care about me. But dad still thought you would understand one day.
“Because… I am not the son of another man.”
“What…?”
“Yes. I am your son. You met her while she was already pregnant. But she said it was someone else’s to see how you felt. And then it was too late to say anything.
“I uncovered the truth in her journal. The journal is hidden in the attic, where no one can see it.
The world fell apart around me. I had turned down my son. And now he stood in front of me, deserving and successful, while I had lost everything.
I had lost him two times. And the second time, it was for good.
I sat in a corner of the gallery, heartbroken. His words rang in my head like swords stabbing my heart.
“I am your son.”
“She thought you only wanted me for the baby.”
“You chose not to say anything because I loved you.”
“You left because you were scared of the responsibility.”
I used to think I was brave for “accepting” another man’s child. But I was never really kind. Not fair. There was never a father for me.
When Meera died, I turned down Arjun like he was unwelcome. I did not realize that he was my own blood.
I chased after him. “Arjun, hold on… If I had known you were mine—”
He gazed at me calmly, but not very closely.
“I’m not here for your sorrys.” You don’t have to complain.
“I wanted you to know that my mom was always honest. She cared about you.” She chose 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 today because you turned me down.
He gave me an envelope. There was a copy of Meera’s diary inside.
In wobbly handwriting, she wrote, “Please forgive me if you ever read this.” I was scared. I was worried that you would only love me for the baby. But Arjun is our child.
I wept. I shed tears without uttering a word.
I felt inadequate as a husband. As a dad. And now, I felt lost and unsure of what to do next.
I tried to make things better, but it wasn’t easy. I got in touch with Arjun in the following weeks.
I sent him a note. He stood outside his gallery waiting for me. Not to forgive, but merely to be close.
But Arjun didn’t want me anymore.
He said he will meet me one day. His voice was kind but strong.
“You don’t have to make up for it. I don’t hold anything against you. But I don’t need a dad. Because the one I had didn’t want me.
I nodded. He was correct.
I gave her my savings account, which was all I had. I had planned to give it to my new partner, but as 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 support you without creating any noise. No titles. Without demands.
“Just knowing you’re good is enough.”
Arjun stared at me for a long time. Then he answered, “I’ll agree.” He wasn’t interested in the money.
“But my mom thought you could still be a good person.”