That name, that boy I’d kicked out of my house a decade ago, was returning to my life like a ghost, unsure whether to forgive me or destroy me.
On Saturday, the city seemed different.
Or maybe it was me who had changed.
The glass building of the new TEK Gallery gleamed in the sun like a monument to everything I hadn’t been: perseverance, talent, redemption.
The initials on the facade—TEK—sent a shiver down my spine. T. Ethan Kapoor.
I walked in with my heart pounding as if I were about to commit a crime.
The lobby was filled with journalists, artists, and patrons. The white walls were covered with portraits.
And in the center, a large painting: a male figure standing, his face blurred, while a small boy walked away, carrying a torn backpack.
I stood motionless.
I didn’t need to read the title on the plaque: “The day I stopped being a son.”
“I knew you’d come.” The voice chilled me to the bone.
I turned around.
And there he was.
Not the boy I remembered, but a man.
Delgado, with his mother’s eyes, but with a calmness I didn’t recognize.
His gaze held no hatred, no anger. Only a serenity that hurt more than any scream.
“Ethan…” I whispered.
He nodded, with a slight smile.
“Hello, Mr. Kapoor.”
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