It’s been five years since we lost our son, Robert. He was just eleven — a boy who loved the stars and dreamed of building rockets. Before he was even born, my in-laws started a college fund for him. Over the years, my husband and I added to it, dollar by dollar. After Robert passed, we left the fund untouched. It became sacred — his legacy.
At my husband Martin’s birthday dinner last week, his sister Amber suddenly cleared her throat. “It’s obvious you’re not having another child,” she said bluntly. “You should give Robert’s college fund to Steven. He needs it.” The room went silent. My heart pounded.
Before I could respond, my father-in-law spoke. He reminded her that Steven had his own college fund — the one Amber had emptied years ago for a Disney trip. Amber flushed, but pressed on. “It’s not like anyone’s using that money.” That’s when I stood up. My voice shook, but it didn’t waver.
“You’re right. No one’s using it. Because it belongs to Robert. Every dollar in that account was built with love and hope for his future. Taking it now would erase him. And I won’t let that happen.”Amber left in silence, her son staring at his phone. Later, she texted me that I was “selfish.” But I didn’t reply. Because grief isn’t a bank account. That fund isn’t money waiting to be reassigned. It’s Robert’s memory — a future he never got to touch. And I’ll protect it until my last breath.