“It’s called Mother. I’ve never shown it before.
But today I want you to see it.”
I lifted the cloth. There she was—Meera.
In a hospital bed, pale and fragile.
In her hand, a photo—of the three of us, on the only trip we ever took together.
My knees buckled.
Arjun’s voice didn’t tremble:
“Before she died, she wrote a diary.
She knew you didn’t love me.
But she still believed—that one day you would understand.
Because… I am not another man’s child.”
I stopped breathing.
“What…?”
“Yes. I am your child.
She was already pregnant when she met you.
But she told you it was someone else’s—to test your heart.
And then, it was too late to confess.”
“I found the truth in her diary. Hidden in the old attic.”
My world fell apart.