When my ex-wife insisted I hand over the money I had saved for our late son to her stepson, I thought I’d misheard her. Sitting across from her and her smug husband, the weight of their audacity was undeniable. This wasn’t just about the money—it was about protecting Peter’s legacy.
I sat in Peter’s room, now deafeningly quiet. His belongings were still scattered: books, medals, and the half-finished sketch he’d left on his desk. Peter loved drawing when he wasn’t immersed in a book or tackling puzzles I could barely comprehend.
“You were too smart for me, kid,” I murmured, picking up a framed photo from his nightstand. It was from his sixteenth birthday, his crooked grin captured perfectly—the one he wore whenever he thought he’d outsmarted me. He was usually right.
Yale. My boy had gotten into Yale. Sometimes, it still didn’t feel real. But he never made it there. A drunk driver ensured that.
I rubbed my temples, grief hitting like a relentless tide. Some days, I could navigate it. Today wasn’t one of those days.
The knock on the door snapped me out of my thoughts. Susan. She’d left a voicemail earlier about Peter’s college fund. Her tone was sickly sweet, rehearsed as always. I hadn’t called her back, but now she was here, uninvited.
When I opened the door, her polished exterior was as impenetrable as ever. “Can I come in?” she asked, stepping inside before I could answer.
In the living room, she wasted no time. “We know about Peter’s college fund,” she began, her voice light, almost casual.
I felt my chest tighten. “You’re joking.”
She leaned forward, her smile icy. “Think about it. The money’s just sitting there. Ryan could really benefit from it.”
“That money was for Peter,” I snapped. My voice shook with anger. “Not your stepson.”
She sighed dramatically, as though I was being unreasonable. “Don’t be like this. Ryan is family too.”
“Family?” I barked. “Peter barely knew him. And let’s not pretend you cared about Peter either.”
Her face reddened, but she didn’t deny it. Instead, she proposed a meeting with her husband, Jerry, to “discuss” things. I didn’t have to think long about my answer.
The coffee shop was buzzing, but their table was a bubble of arrogance. Susan scrolled her phone, looking bored. Jerry stirred his coffee with an exaggerated clink. They didn’t even notice me at first.
I slid into the chair opposite them. “Let’s get this over with.”
Susan’s practiced smile snapped into place. “We just think it’s the right thing to do,” she began. “Peter’s fund isn’t being used, and Ryan has so much potential.”
Jerry chimed in with a smug grin. “College is expensive. You understand that, right? Why let that money sit idle?”
My hands clenched under the table. “You mean your stepson’s college?” I said coldly.
Susan’s voice softened, feigning sincerity. “Peter would’ve wanted to help.”
“Don’t you dare speak for Peter,” I growled. “He barely knew Ryan. And let’s not rewrite history—Peter was my responsibility, not yours.”
She bristled but held her ground. “That’s not fair.”
I leaned forward. “Fair? Let’s talk about fair. Fair is raising your child, showing up for them, putting them first. You didn’t. You handed Peter over to me because you couldn’t handle the ‘responsibility.’ Now you want his legacy?”
Jerry tried to interject, but I cut him off. “You remember that summer Peter stayed with you? He told me you let him eat cereal for dinner while you and Susan had steak. Fourteen years old, and you couldn’t bother to feed him.”
Jerry’s face flushed crimson, but he said nothing.
I stood, my voice steady but cutting. “That money isn’t yours. It’s not Ryan’s. It was for Peter—and it still is.”
Without waiting for a response, I walked out.
Back home, I sat in Peter’s room again, the confrontation replaying in my head. The ache in my chest hadn’t lessened, but my resolve had strengthened.
I picked up his photo again, his bright eyes looking back at me. “They don’t get it, buddy. They never did.”
My gaze wandered to the map of Europe on his wall, with Belgium circled in bold red. “We were supposed to go,” I whispered. “The museums, the castles, the beer monks.”
I chuckled, my voice breaking. “You really thought of everything.”
The idea bloomed suddenly, a spark in the haze of grief. I opened my laptop and logged into the college fund. Peter’s dream wasn’t just his. It was ours.
A week later, I was on a plane, Peter’s photo tucked into my jacket. The seat beside me was empty, but it didn’t feel that way. As the plane climbed, I whispered, “You’re here with me, kid, right?”
The trip was everything we’d dreamed of. I explored grand museums, marveled at towering castles, and even visited a monastery brewery. At every stop, I could almost hear Peter’s voice, full of excitement and endless questions.
On my last night, I sat by a quiet canal, the city lights dancing on the water. I pulled out Peter’s photo and held it up to the view.
“This is for you,” I said softly. “We made it.”
For the first time in months, the ache felt lighter. Peter was gone, but his spirit was here, alive in every moment. This was his legacy—our legacy. And no one could take that away.
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