After the divorce, my son developed a deep hatred for me. He refused to see me or talk to me. I barely coped with this.
We lost contact for several years.
Later, I met my wife and we had two beautiful kids. Life was great again until I got laid off unexpectedly.
The layoff came on a rainy Thursday. My boss handed me a folder with severance details, and that was that. No warning, no performance issues—just “downsizing.” I sat in my car for an hour, soaked in the sound of rain hitting the windshield, wondering how to explain this to my wife, Jaya.
We weren’t struggling, but we didn’t have much cushion either. Two kids, rent, groceries, school fees—it all added up. I spent the next three weeks applying for everything from warehouse jobs to marketing gigs. My background was in logistics, but nobody was biting.
I tried to stay calm, but something was gnawing at me. More than the job loss. It was my son. Amar. I hadn’t spoken to him in nine years. He was fourteen when his mother and I split. I left, thinking it was the right thing, but Amar saw it as abandonment.
He never forgave me.
Even when I reached out—birthdays, holidays, graduation—I got silence. Or worse, a blocked number. His mother, Priya, wasn’t exactly helpful either. “He doesn’t want to talk. Respect his wishes,” was her usual line.
One night, after the kids were in bed and Jaya had fallen asleep on the couch, I pulled out the old photo album. The one with pictures of Amar as a toddler, in his dinosaur pajamas, clutching that ugly yellow bear he used to take everywhere.
I stared at his little face, frozen in time. The guilt hit like a wave. I wasn’t perfect. I made mistakes. But I had loved him. Still did.
The next morning, everything changed.
A young man rang our doorbell around 10 a.m. He looked about twenty, tall, lanky, with tired eyes and a busted backpack hanging off one shoulder. Jaya was behind me in the kitchen, feeding our youngest when I opened the door.
“Hi. Are you… Mr. Narayan?”
“Yeah. Can I help you?”
He scratched his head, looked down at his shoes. “You don’t know me, but I think you knew my dad. His name was Rafiq, Rafiq Patel.”
I blinked. That name. I hadn’t heard it in over a decade. Rafiq and I had been best friends in college, roommates for three years. He was the one who encouraged me to date Priya, back in the day. We lost touch after I moved cities.
“Rafiq was my friend. A good one,” I said carefully. “Is he… okay?”
The kid’s jaw tightened. “He passed. Two months ago. Heart attack.”
I stepped outside, closed the door behind me. “I’m sorry, man. Truly. He was one of the best people I knew.”
“He left me a letter. Told me if things ever got too hard, I should come find you. Said you’d help me.”
I didn’t even think. “You hungry?”
He nodded, and I led him inside.
Over dal and rice, he told me his name was Sameer. He was twenty-one, studying engineering, working part-time to support himself after Rafiq died. His mom had passed years ago, and now he was alone. The apartment his dad left him was being sold to cover debts. He had nowhere to go.
“Why me?” I asked, genuinely puzzled. “Why would Rafiq think I could help?”
Sameer shrugged. “Said you owed him one. That you’d understand.”
That night, after Jaya and I talked, we offered to let him stay in our guest room for a while. It wasn’t much, but he was polite, grateful, and good with the kids.
A week passed. Then another.
We got used to him being around. He’d help with dinner, pick the kids up from school if I had an interview. There was a calmness about him. Like he’d been through too much too soon.
One afternoon, I came home early and found Sameer in the backyard with my youngest, teaching her how to dribble a soccer ball. They were both laughing, and for a second, I forgot all the heaviness.
But later that evening, I noticed something on the kitchen counter. A familiar envelope, cream-colored, addressed in old handwriting. I opened it, and inside was a photograph—me and Rafiq from college, arms around each other, grinning like idiots.
Taped to the back was a note: “If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. Forgive me, old friend. I did something you’ll never expect.”
My stomach dropped.
The next morning, I confronted Sameer.
“Did your dad say anything else about me?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.
He paused. Looked away. “He said… you and he had a falling out. That he regretted it.”
“That all?”