11/06/2025
After my wife died, I kicked her son, who wasn't my own flesh and blood, out of the house—ten years later, a truth came to light that shattered me.
I threw his worn-out bag on the floor and looked at the 12-year-old boy with cold, lifeless eyes.
“Go away. You're not my son. My wife is gone—I have no reason to continue caring for you. Go wherever you want.”
He didn't cry.
He didn't beg.
He just hung his head, picked up his old bag with its broken strap, and walked out the door silently—without saying a single word.
Ten years later, when the truth came to light…
All I wished was I could turn back time.
My wife died suddenly of a stroke, leaving me alone with a 12-year-old boy.
But he wasn't my son.
He was the fruit of a relationship she had before she met me—a love affair she never shared with anyone. A pregnancy she faced alone, without a partner.
When I married her at 26, I admired her—a strong woman who had raised a child on her own.
I told myself, “I accept her, and her child too.”
But love that doesn't come from the heart… never lasts.
I cared for the child, but it wasn't out of love—it was out of obligation.
And when my wife died, everything fell apart.
Nothing held me back anymore.
No reason to keep him in my life.
He was always quiet, respectful, but distant.
I knew—deep down—that I never loved him.
A month after his mother's funeral, I told him,
“Go. I don't care if you live or die.”
I thought he would cry.
I thought he would beg.
But he didn't.
He left silently.
And me? I felt nothing. No guilt. No pity.
I sold the old house. I moved to a new place.
Life improved. My business prospered.
I met a new woman.
No children. No burdens. Peace. Comfort.
For the first few years, I sometimes thought about the boy—not out of concern, just curiosity.
Where would he have ended up? Was he still alive?
Eventually, even that curiosity faded.
A 12-year-old orphan, with no family, nowhere to go—where could he have ended up?
I didn't know.
I didn't care.
In fact, I once even said to myself:
“If he died, maybe it was for the best. At least he wouldn't suffer anymore.”
And one day—exactly ten years later…
My phone rang. The number was unfamiliar.
“Hello, sir? Would you be available to attend an art gallery opening this Saturday? Someone really wants to see him there.”
I was about to hang up—I didn't know any artists.
But before I could do so, the voice on the other end said something that chilled my blood:
“Do you want to know what happened to the boy you abandoned all those years ago?
