When my ex-wife demanded that I give the money I saved for our late son to her stepson, I thought grief had dulled my hearing. But when I sat across from her and her smug husband, their audacity clear as day, I realized this wasn’t just about money. It was about defending my son’s legacy.
I sat in Peter’s room, the silence too loud now. His belongings scattered across the room — books, medals, and a half-finished sketch left on his desk. Peter had loved to draw when he wasn’t buried in a book or solving some complex problem that would leave me dizzy.
“You were too smart for me, kid,” I murmured, picking up a photo from his nightstand. His crooked grin, the one he wore whenever he thought he had one up on me, was frozen in time. He usually did.
This picture was taken just before he was accepted to Yale. A moment of pride I’ll never forget. But he never got to go. The drunk driver made sure of that.
I rubbed my temples, the grief still gnawing at me, as it had since November. Some days I managed, but others, like today, it consumed me completely.
The knock on the door snapped me back to reality. Susan. She had left me a voicemail earlier — “We need to talk about Peter’s fund.” Her voice always sounded rehearsed, too sweet to be sincere. I hadn’t called her back. But now, here she was.
I opened the door, and there she stood, as sharply dressed as ever, but her eyes were cold.
“Can I come in?” she asked, walking past me before I could answer.
I sighed and gestured toward the living room. “Make it quick.”
She made herself comfortable, like she owned the place. “Look,” she said nonchalantly, “we know Peter had a college fund.”
I knew immediately where this was going. “Are you serious?”
Susan leaned forward, smirking. “Think about it. The money’s just sitting there. Why not put it to good use? Ryan could really benefit.”
“That money was for Peter,” I snapped, my voice rising before I could stop it. “It’s not for your stepson.”
She sighed dramatically, shaking her head. “Don’t be like this. Ryan is family too.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Family? Peter barely knew him. You barely knew Peter.”
Her face reddened, but she didn’t argue. “Let’s meet for coffee tomorrow and discuss it. You, Jerry, and me.”
That night, I replayed the conversation in my head as I sat back on Peter’s bed. 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 called it. “It’s better for Peter this way,” she had said, as though she was doing us both a favor.
For years, it was just me and Peter. He was my world, and I was his. I woke up early to make his lunch, helped him with his homework, and cheered him on at his games. Susan didn’t bother. She’d send a card on his birthday, sometimes, but never gifts. Just a card with her name scrawled at the bottom.
That’s what made the summer with Susan and Jerry so hard. Peter wanted to bond with them, but when he returned, he was different. Quieter. One night, I finally got him to talk.
“They don’t care about me, Dad,” he had said softly. “Jerry said I’m not his responsibility, so I ate cereal for dinner every night.”
I clenched my fists but stayed silent. I didn’t want to make it worse, but I never sent him back.
Peter didn’t mind, or at least, he never showed it. He loved school and 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. “Aren’t you a little young for that?”
“It’s research,” he’d say with a grin. “Yale’s going to love me.”
And they did. I remember when the acceptance letter came. He opened it at the kitchen table, his hands shaking, and then yelled so loud I thought the neighbors might call the cops. I had never been prouder. But now, it was all gone.
The next morning, I walked into the coffee shop, already spotting them. Susan was on her phone, looking bored, and Jerry was stirring his coffee so loudly it was grating 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, flashing her practiced smile. “Oh, good. You’re here. Sit, sit.” She gestured like she was doing me a favor.
I sat 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 cut in, her voice dripping with sweetness. “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 the money sit when it could help someone?”
“Someone?” I repeated, my voice quiet. “You mean your stepson?”
Susan sighed like I was being difficult. “Ryan is part of the family. Peter would have 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.”
Her face flushed, but she stayed silent.
“No?” I leaned forward, voice steady. “Let’s talk about fair. Fair is raising a kid, 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 smug grin faltered, but he quickly recovered. “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 stayed quiet.
“That’s not true,” Susan said quickly, her voice trembling. “You’re twisting things.”
“No, I’m not,” I said firmly. “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 on 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 went silent. People were staring, but I didn’t care. I stood, glaring at them both. “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 ease the ache in my chest.
I picked up his photo from the desk — the one of us on his birthday. “They don’t get it, buddy,” I said quietly. “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, crooked grin, and 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.