The paintings were striking—oil on canvas, cold, distant, and frightening.

I read the artist’s name, T.P.A.

The initials hurt.

“Hello, Mr. Rajesh.”

A tall, slim young man in plain clothes stood before me, his gaze deep and unreadable.

I froze.

It was Arjun.

Gone was the frail boy I had abandoned.

Before me stood a composed and accomplished man.

Familiar. Nonetheless, it feels far away.

“You…” I stammered. “How…?”

He cut me off, his voice smooth but cutting as glass.

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

He brought me to a canvas covered in red cloth.

“It is named Mother. I have never shown it before.
But today, I want you to see it.

I lifted the cloth.

There she was: Meera.
Pale and emaciated, lying on a hospital bed.
She held a photograph of the three of us from our only trip together.

My knees gave way.

Arjun’s voice did not waver.

“Before she died, she wrote a journal.
She knew you didn’t love me.
But she still believed — one day — you’d understand.
Because… I’m not some other man’s child.”

I stopped breathing.

“What…?”

“Yes. I’m your son.
She was already pregnant when you met her.
But she told you I was from someone else — to test your heart.
And later, it was too late to confess.”

“I found the truth in her journal. Hidden in the old attic.”

The world collapsed around me.

I had cast out my own son.

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

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

I sat in a corner of the gallery, devastated.
His words resonated in my head like swords piercing my soul.

“I’m your son.”
“She was afraid you only stayed out of duty.”
“She chose silence… because she loved you.”
“You walked away because you feared responsibility.”

I previously thought I was heroic for “accepting” another man’s child.
But I had never really been kind. Never fair. Never had a father.

When Meera died, I rejected Arjun like if he were undesirable.

Not knowing… He was my own blood.

I attempted to talk.
Arjun had already turned away.

I ran after him.

“Arjun, please wait…” If I’d known you were mine—”