When my ex-wife Susan demanded Peter’s college fund for her stepson Ryan, I realized this was not about money but about protecting my late son’s memory.
Peter was brilliant and driven. He dreamed of Yale, Belgium, and a bright future. But those dreams ended tragically due to a drunk driver. “You were always a step ahead of me, kid,” I often thought, sitting in his room surrounded by his books and unfinished sketches.
Months after his passing, Susan appeared, suggesting the fund was “just sitting there” and Ryan could use it. “That money was for Peter,” I snapped. Susan, unfazed, argued Ryan was family, but Peter barely knew him. Memories of Susan abandoning Peter at 12 and leaving him to eat cereal while she dined on steak resurfaced. “You didn’t care then, and you don’t care now,” I told her.
Despite their persistence, I stood firm. Peter’s fund was untouchable. Back home, I decided to honor him differently. Remembering his dream of visiting Belgium, I booked a trip.
In Belgium, I visited castles, museums, and even a monastery brewery—everything Peter had envisioned. By the canal one evening, holding his photo, I whispered, “We did it.”
Peter may be gone, but his legacy remains mine to protect. And no one will take that from me.
