The silence in Peter’s room was unbearable. His books, medals, and half-finished sketches sat untouched, reminders of the boy who had once filled the house with energy. Peter had been brilliant, always outsmarting me with that crooked grin. He’d earned his place at Yale, but a drunk driver stole that future before it began.
Grief came in waves. Some days I could function, others it swallowed me whole. That’s when Susan, my ex-wife, appeared. She had left Peter when he was twelve, claiming motherhood was “too much responsibility.” For years, she barely sent a birthday card. Yet now she wanted to talk about Peter’s college fund.
Susan walked in, sharp as ever, her tone casual. “We know Peter had a fund. Why not put it to good use? Ryan could benefit.”
I froze. “That money was for Peter. Not your stepson.”
She sighed dramatically. “Ryan is family too.”
Family? Peter barely knew him. Susan barely knew Peter. Still, she insisted we meet with her
At the coffee shop, Susan scrolled her phone while Jerry stirred his cup with smug confidence. “College is expensive,” he said. “Why let that money sit unused when Ryan has potential?”
Susan chimed in sweetly: “Peter would have wanted to help.”
I leaned forward, voice steady. “Don’t you dare speak for Peter. You abandoned him. You let him eat cereal while you had steak. He told me himself.”
Jerry slammed his cup down. “You’re being ridiculous. Raising kids is hard.”
“I know,” I shot back. “I raised Peter alone, without a dime from either of you. That fund is his legacy. You’ll never touch it.”
The café went silent. I stood and walked out, leaving them stunned.
Back home, I sat in Peter’s room, clutching his photo. Belgium was circled on his wall map — the trip we’d planned together. Museums, castles, even the monks’ brewery.
I opened his 529 Plan account. The money wasn’t for Ryan. It wasn’t for Susan or Jerry. It was for Peter. For us.
A week later, I boarded a plane with Peter’s photo in my jacket pocket. The seat beside me was empty, but it didn’t feel that way.
In Belgium, I walked through grand museums, stood before castles, and imagined Peter’s grin at every stop. On the final night, I sat by the canal, holding his photo to the lights. “This is for you,” I whispered. “We made it.”
For the first time in months, the ache eased. Peter was gone, but he was with me. His dream lived on — untouchable, unclaimed by anyone else.
