A decade later, when the truth emerged, regret struck me harder than any punishment life could give.

I’m Rajesh. I was 36 when Meera—my wife—collapsed from a sudden stroke. She left behind a 12-year-old boy named Arjun.

But Arjun wasn’t mine by blood.
He was the child Meera had before we met.

I married her knowing she carried scars—an abandoned love, a lonely pregnancy. I praised myself for being “understanding,” for taking in her child.

I wasn’t noble.
I was arrogant.