When my ex-wife Susan insisted that the college fund I’d set aside for our late son Peter be given to her stepson, I was stunned. The audacity of it all wasn’t just about money—it was about protecting Peter’s legacy from being stolen.
Sitting on Peter’s bed, I scanned his room—his books, medals, and unfinished sketches. The silence felt heavy. “You were always a step ahead, kid,” I whispered, holding a photo of Peter grinning, proud of his Yale acceptance. He never got to go. A drunk driver ended that dream.
Grief had been my constant companion since November. Some days, it paralyzed me; other days, I could almost function like before. But not today. Susan’s knock at the door snapped me back to reality.