When Clara’s sister-in-law decided to raise an outrageous request during what should have been a peaceful family celebration, the scars of grief came rushing back. In that fragile space where memory collides with loss, Clara was forced not only to defend her late son’s legacy but also to draw a sharp line between genuine love and selfish entitlement.
It had been five years since Clara and her husband, Martin, lost their only child, Robert. He was just eleven years old—a boy with a laugh that could fill the house like sunlight, always tinkering with soda-bottle rockets on the kitchen floor, always looking to the sky. Robert adored the stars. He would press his finger to the night sky and proudly point out Orion’s Belt as if he were the first to ever discover it.
Even before Robert was born, Martin’s parents had invested in his future. One evening, as the family gathered around their oak dining table, Jay, Martin’s father, slid an envelope across to Clara and Martin.
“A little head start,” he said warmly. “So he won’t have to begin life weighed down by student loans.”
Inside was the beginning of Robert’s college fund. Clara remembered how she held that envelope as though it were a fragile treasure. “Thank you,” she whispered. “He’s not even born yet, and you already believe in him.”
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