It was late afternoon, the city lights were beginning to flicker on as the streets of Mumbai filled with people rushing home from work. At a crowded intersection, two ragged children bent down beside a garbage truck, scavenging for discarded styrofoam food boxes. The older brother, around ten, was thin and sunburned, his hair bleached yellow by the relentless sun. His younger sister, about seven, wore a faded dress with torn shoulders and clutched a plastic bag filled with leftover rice.

“Bhaiya, this rice smells funny…” the little girl frowned.

“It’s okay,” he replied gently. “Mom can eat a little just to get through the hunger. We’ll pick the good parts for ourselves.”

He tightened the bag, adjusted his torn backpack, and gripped his sister’s hand tightly. They dashed across the road toward a narrow alleyway. In a cramped ten-square-meter rental room, a woman in her early thirties lay motionless on a fragile bamboo cot. Her face was gaunt, her skin pale. Her eyes, dull and sunken, weakly gazed at her children.

“Amma, we brought food,” the boy whispered. “Please eat a little… try for us.”

She tried to smile, but her chapped lips trembled. Tears rolled down her temple. She had suffered a stroke nearly a year ago, paralyzing half her body. No longer able to work, she relied solely on her two young children who survived by collecting recyclables and begging for leftover food.

That night, the rain poured mercilessly. The siblings curled up next to their mother, shivering. In a hazy dream, the boy saw a shadowy image of the father he barely remembered. The man had left when he was just two years old, taking every bit of savings with him and leaving behind an empty home and broken family. Since then, the boy never asked his mother about him again. To him, his father was no one.

The next morning, the boy led his sister toward the upscale parts of South Mumbai. The rain had stopped, but a cold wind bit at their faces. They paused outside a towering complex where a grand opening ceremony for a luxury shopping mall was about to take place. Inside, dozens of workers were setting up a lavish breakfast buffet: buttery pav buns, fresh salad, chicken sausages, sunny-side-up eggs, and steaming bowls of sweet corn soup. The aroma drifted out to the pavement, making their stomachs churn.

They swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the buffet. A gruff security guard frowned and barked:

“Go away, don’t loiter here.”

The girl gripped her brother’s arm in fear, but the boy bowed respectfully and said:

“Uncle, please… can we take a little leftover food home for our mother? She’s bedridden and can’t move…”

The guard said nothing. Well-dressed guests walked by, their eyes cold and indifferent. But one middle-aged man in a sleek black suit, holding a cup of Starbucks coffee, stopped. He stared intently at the children. His broad forehead and sharp eyes suddenly filled with disbelief.

Standing before him were his eldest son and youngest daughter… he recognized them immediately. It was them—his own blood. The boy was a mirror of himself at that age, except for those sorrowful, hollow eyes. His heart clenched. All these years, he had been abroad, building a real estate empire. Now a billionaire, Arvind Mehra owned yachts, sports cars, and a private jet. But not once had he looked back for his wife and children.

He had assumed they’d be fine without him.

And yet now, here they were—his children, begging for leftovers to save their mother.

“Where… where is your mother now?” his voice trembled.

The boy looked at him cautiously but answered:

“She’s in the nearby slum area, lying in a rented room. She can’t move.”

Arvind staggered back, heart racing. An assistant came running, reminding him it was time to cut the ribbon. But Arvind waved him off, threw his coffee into a bin, and pulled out his phone. Twenty minutes later, an ambulance and a convoy of aides arrived at the slum.

The woman lying on the bamboo cot couldn’t believe her eyes. The man who had abandoned her and their children stood before her in a tailored suit, leather shoes gleaming, eyes wet with emotion.

“What… what are you doing here?” she rasped.

He dropped to his knees, hands trembling as they took hers. For years, he had been cold and unfeeling—but now, tears rolled freely down his cheeks. His sobs echoed in the damp, cramped room.

“I’m sorry… I was wrong… I don’t deserve to be your husband, or their father… But please, let me take care of you all now…”

The little girl looked confused, turning to her mother.

“Maa, who is this man? Why is he crying?”

Her mother closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face. She weakly squeezed her children’s hands and whispered:

“He… he’s your father.”

The children stared in shock. They had never said the word “father” in all their lives.

That day, billionaire Arvind Mehra brought his wife and children back to his palatial mansion on Altamount Road. He also made a public statement: he would step away from the business world for a while—to make up for nearly a decade of abandonment.

To him, wealth wasn’t about how much money one had.

True wealth… was seeing the peaceful smiles on the faces of those he had once forgotten.