When my ex-wife demanded the money I had saved for our late son be given to her stepson, I thought grief had dulled my hearing. But as I sat across from her and her smug husband, their audacity became crystal clear. This wasn’t just about money—this was about protecting my son’s legacy.
I sat on Peter’s bed, the silence in the room pressing in around me. His things were just as he had left them. Books stacked neatly on his desk, medals hanging on the wall, and a half-finished sketch waiting for his return. Peter loved to draw. When he wasn’t reading or solving complex problems that left me baffled, he’d have a pencil in hand, creating something new.
“You were too smart for me, kid,” I murmured, picking up a framed photo from his nightstand. Peter had that crooked grin, the one he always wore when he thought he’d outsmarted me. And he usually had.
The picture had been taken just before he got into Yale. I still couldn’t believe it sometimes. But he never got to go. A drunk driver had made sure of that. I rubbed my temples and exhaled slowly. The grief came in waves, some days manageable, other days suffocating. Today was one of those days.
A sharp knock at the door jolted me from my thoughts. Susan. She had left a voicemail earlier. “We need to talk about Peter’s fund,” she’d said, her voice carrying that familiar rehearsed sweetness. I hadn’t called back. Now, here she was.
I opened the door. She stood there, dressed sharply as always, her expression composed, but her eyes held no warmth.
“Can I come in?” she asked, stepping past me before I could respond.
I sighed, motioning toward the living room. “Make it quick.”
She sat down, making herself comfortable like she still had a right to this space. “Look,” she began, her tone light, as if this were just a simple discussion. “We know Peter had a college fund.”
I stiffened. I already knew where this was going. “You’re joking, right?”
Susan leaned forward, her lips curling into a smirk. “Think about it. The money is just sitting there. Why not put it to good use? Ryan could really benefit from it.”
I felt my blood boil. “That money was for Peter,” I snapped. My voice rose before I could stop it. “It is not for your stepson.”
Susan sighed dramatically and shook her head. “Don’t be like this. Ryan is family too.”
“Family?” I repeated, incredulous. “Peter barely knew him. You barely knew Peter.”
Her face darkened for a second, but she quickly masked it. “Let’s meet for coffee tomorrow and discuss it. You, me, and Jerry.”
That evening, her words haunted me as I sat in Peter’s room again. How did we get here? Susan had left when Peter was twelve. She had called it “too much responsibility.”
“It’s better for Peter this way,” she had said back then, like she was doing us both a favor.
For years, it was just me and Peter. I woke up early to pack his lunch, helped him with his homework, cheered at his games. Susan? She barely acknowledged him. A birthday card, sometimes. No gifts, just a half-hearted signature at the bottom.
Then came the summer he spent with Susan and Jerry. Peter had wanted to bond with them. I was skeptical, but I let him go. When he came back, he was different. Quieter. One night, I finally got him to talk.
“They don’t care about me, Dad,” he had said softly. “Jerry told me I’m not his responsibility, so I ate cereal for dinner every night.”
I clenched my fists, but I had stayed quiet. I never sent him back. Peter never asked to go again.
“One day, Dad,” he used to say, “we’re going to Belgium. We’ll see the museums, the castles. And don’t forget the beer monks!”
“Beer monks?” I had laughed. “You’re a little young for that, aren’t you?”
“It’s research,” he had grinned. “Yale’s going to love me.”
They had. The day the acceptance letter arrived, he had torn it open, his hands shaking, then let out a whoop so loud the neighbors probably heard. I had never been prouder. And now, it was all gone.
The next morning, I met Susan and Jerry at a coffee shop. Susan scrolled through her phone while Jerry stirred his coffee loudly. Neither noticed me at first.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said, standing by their table.
Susan looked up and forced a smile. “Oh, good. You’re here. Sit, sit.”
I didn’t. “Say what you need to say.”
Jerry leaned back, grinning. “We appreciate you meeting us. We know this isn’t easy.”
“No, it isn’t,” I replied coldly.
Susan tilted her head, her voice syrupy sweet. “We just think it’s the right thing to do, you know? Peter’s fund—it’s not being used. And Ryan, well, he has so much potential.”
Jerry folded his arms. “College is expensive. You of all people should understand that. Why let the money sit there when it could actually help someone?”
“Someone?” I echoed, my voice low. “You mean your stepson?”
Susan sighed dramatically. “Ryan is family. Peter would have wanted to help.”
“Don’t you dare speak for Peter,” I snapped. “He barely knew Ryan. And you barely knew him.”
Susan’s mask slipped. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair?” I leaned in. “Fair is showing up for your kid. I did that for Peter. You didn’t. And now you think you’re entitled to his legacy?”
Jerry’s grin vanished. “Look, it’s not about entitlement. It’s about doing the right thing.”
I laughed bitterly. “Like when Peter stayed with you? Fourteen years old, and you let him eat cereal while you had steak?”
Jerry’s face reddened, but he said nothing.
Susan swallowed hard. “You’re twisting things.”
“No, I’m not,” I said sharply. “Peter told me himself. He tried to believe you cared. But you didn’t.”
Jerry slammed his coffee cup down. “Do you know how hard it is to raise a kid these days?”
“I do,” I shot back. “I raised Peter. Alone. And I won’t let you take what was his.”
I stood, ignoring the stares from other customers. “You don’t deserve a cent of that fund.”
Back home, I sat in Peter’s room, holding his photo. “They never got it, buddy.”
My eyes landed on the map of Europe. Belgium was circled in bright red. I opened my laptop and logged into the college fund account.
“I’m doing it,” I whispered. “Belgium. Just like we planned.”
A week later, I was on a plane, Peter’s photo in my pocket. The seat beside me was empty, but it didn’t feel that way.
“Hope you’re here with me, kid,” I whispered.
And as I walked through grand museums and towering castles, I knew he was.
