When my ex-wife demanded the money I’d saved for our late son, Peter, I thought my grief had messed with my hearing. But as I sat across from her and her smug husband, Jerry, their audacity hit me like a punch to the gut. This wasn’t just about money—it was about protecting my son’s memory, his dreams, and everything he stood for.
I sat on Peter’s bed, surrounded by his things. The room was too quiet now, too still. His books were stacked neatly on the desk, his medals hung on the wall, and a half-finished sketch lay beside his laptop. Peter loved to draw when he wasn’t buried in a book or solving some complicated math problem that made my head spin.
“You were always too smart for me, kid,” I muttered, picking up a photo frame from his nightstand. It was a picture of Peter, his crooked grin lighting up his face. That grin always appeared when he thought he’d outsmarted me—and he usually had.
The photo was taken just before he got accepted into Yale. I still couldn’t believe it sometimes. My boy, my brilliant boy, was going to an Ivy League school. But he never got to go. A drunk driver took that future away from him. I rubbed my temples, trying to push back the wave of grief that threatened to drown me. Some days, I could almost function. Other days, like today, it felt like I was suffocating.
Then came the knock on the door. Susan. My ex-wife. She’d left a voicemail earlier, her voice sugary sweet but with that fake tone I’d come to recognize over the years. “We need to talk about Peter’s fund,” she’d said. I didn’t call her back. But now, here she was, standing on my doorstep, dressed in her usual sharp outfit, her eyes cold and calculating.
“Can I come in?” she asked, already stepping past me before I could answer.
I sighed and motioned toward the living room. “Make it quick.”
She sat down, crossing her legs like she owned the place. “Look,” she began, her tone casual, as if she were discussing the weather. “We know Peter had a college fund. The money’s just sitting there. Why not put it to good use? Ryan could really benefit from it.”
I stared at her, my stomach churning. “You’re kidding, right?”
Susan leaned forward, a smirk playing on her lips. “Think about it. Ryan’s family. He’s our future. Peter would’ve wanted this.”
“That money was for Peter,” I snapped, my voice rising. “It’s not for your stepson.”
She let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking her head like I was being unreasonable. “Don’t be like this. Ryan is family too.”
“Family?” I shot back, my hands clenching into fists. “Peter barely knew him. And let’s be honest, Susan, you barely knew Peter.”
Her face flushed, but she didn’t deny it. “Let’s meet for coffee tomorrow,” she said, her voice tight. “You, Jerry, and me. We’ll talk it over.”
That evening, I sat back on Peter’s bed, the memory of Susan’s words echoing in my mind. I looked around his room, my heart aching. How had we gotten here? Peter had always been mine to raise. Susan left when he was 12. She didn’t want the “responsibility,” as she’d called it. “It’s better for Peter this way,” she’d said, as if she were doing us both a favor.
For years, it was just me and Peter. He was my world, and I was his. I’d wake up early to make his lunch, help him with homework after school, and sit in the stands cheering at his games. Susan didn’t bother. She’d send a card for his birthday, sometimes.
No gifts, just a card with her name scrawled at the bottom. That’s what made the one summer Peter spent with Susan and Jerry so hard. He’d wanted to bond with them, even if I didn’t trust it. But when he came back, he was different. Quieter. One night, I finally got him to open up.
“They don’t care about me, Dad,” he’d said softly, his voice breaking. “Jerry said I’m not his responsibility, so I ate cereal for dinner every night.”
I’d clenched my fists, trying to keep my anger in check. I didn’t want to make it worse for him. But I never sent him back. Peter didn’t mind, or at least he never showed it. He loved school, and he loved dreaming about the future. “One day, Dad,” he’d say, “we’re going to Belgium. We’ll see the museums, the castles. And don’t forget the beer monks!”
“Beer monks?” I’d laugh. “You’re a little young for that, aren’t you?”
“It’s research,” he’d reply with that grin of his. “Yale’s going to love me.” And they did. I remember the day the acceptance letter came. He opened it at the kitchen table, his hands shaking, and then he yelled so loud I thought the neighbors might call the cops. I’d never been prouder. Now, it was all gone.
That night, I barely slept, preparing for the conversation with Susan and Jerry.
The next morning, I walked into the coffee shop, spotting them immediately. Susan was scrolling through her phone, looking bored. Jerry sat across from her, stirring his coffee so loudly it grated on my nerves. They didn’t even notice me at first. I stood by their table. “Let’s get this over with.”
Susan looked up, her practiced smile snapping into place. “Oh, good. You’re here. Sit, sit.” She gestured like she was doing me a favor.
I slid into the chair across from them, saying nothing. I wanted them to speak first.
Jerry leaned back, his smug grin plastered across his face. “We appreciate you meeting us. We know this isn’t easy.”
I raised an eyebrow. “No, it’s not.”
Susan jumped in, her tone 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’s got so much potential.”
Jerry nodded, folding his arms. “College is expensive, man. You of all people should understand that. Why let that money sit there when it could actually help someone?”
“Someone?” I repeated, my voice low. “You mean your stepson?”
Susan sighed like I was being difficult. “Ryan is part of the family. Peter would’ve wanted to help.”
“Don’t you dare speak for Peter,” I snapped. “He barely knew Ryan. And let’s not pretend you cared about Peter either.”
Susan stiffened, her smile faltering. “That’s not fair.”
“No?” I leaned forward, keeping my voice steady. “Let’s talk about fair. Fair is raising a kid, showing up for them, being there when it counts. I did that for Peter. You didn’t. You sent him to me because you were too busy with your ‘new family.’ And now you think you’re entitled to his legacy?”
Jerry’s smugness cracked for a second. He recovered quickly. “Look, it’s not about entitlement. It’s about doing the right thing.”
“The right thing?” I laughed bitterly. “Like the summer Peter stayed with you? Remember that? Fourteen years old, and you wouldn’t even buy him dinner. You let him eat cereal while you and Susan had steak.”
Jerry’s face reddened, but he said nothing.
“That’s not true,” Susan said quickly, her voice shaky. “You’re twisting things.”
“No, I’m not,” I said sharply. “Peter told me himself. He tried to connect with you two. He wanted to believe you cared. But you didn’t.”
Jerry slammed his coffee cup onto the table. “You’re being ridiculous. Do you know how hard it is to raise a kid these days?”
“I do,” I shot back. “I raised Peter without a dime from either of you. So don’t you dare lecture me.” The coffee shop had gone quiet. People were staring, but I didn’t care. I stood, glaring at both of them. “You don’t deserve a cent of that fund. It’s not yours. It never will be.”
Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked out.
Back home, I sat in Peter’s room again. The confrontation replayed in my mind, but it didn’t make the ache in my chest any lighter.
I picked up his photo from the desk—the one of us on his birthday. “They don’t get it, buddy,” I said softly. “They never did.”
I looked around the room, taking in the books, the drawings, the little pieces of him that still felt so alive here. My eyes landed on the map of Europe tacked to his wall. Belgium was circled in bright red marker. “We were supposed to go,” I whispered.
“You and me. The museums, the castles, the beer monks.” I chuckled softly, my voice breaking. “You really had it all planned out.”
The ache in my chest deepened, but then something shifted. A new thought, a new resolve.
I opened my laptop and logged into the 529 Plan account. As I stared at the balance, I knew what to do. That money wasn’t for Ryan. It wasn’t for anyone else. It was for Peter. For us. “I’m doing it,” I said aloud. “Belgium. Just like we said.”
A week later, I was on a plane, Peter’s photo tucked safely in my jacket pocket. The seat beside me was empty, but it didn’t feel that way. I gripped the armrest as the plane lifted off, my heart pounding.
“Hope you’re here with me, kid,” I whispered, glancing at his picture. The trip was everything we’d dreamed of. I walked through grand museums, stood in awe at towering castles, and even visited a brewery run by monks. I imagined Peter’s excitement, his crooked grin, and his endless questions at every stop.
On the last night, I sat by the canal, the city lights reflecting on the water. I pulled out Peter’s photo and held it up to the view. “This is for you,” I said quietly. “We made it.”
For the first time in months, the ache in my chest felt lighter. Peter was gone, but he was with me. And this—this was our dream. I wouldn’t let anyone take it away.
