After my wife passed away, I cast out her son because he wasn’t my blood—10 years later, a truth came out that broke me completely. I threw the boy’s tattered backpack onto the grass and looked into his eyes, my own intentionally cold. "Go away," I said. "You’re not my son." Arjun, my late wife’s twelve-year-old son, was not my blood. He was a reminder that I had not been her first. With her gone, my only connection to him was severed. Ten years later, I received an invitation. An art gallery. W

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