Jay simply smiled. “He’s my grandson. Of course I believe in him.”
Over the years, Clara and Martin added to that account bit by bit—birthday checks, holiday gifts, small work bonuses. It became more than a financial plan; it was a ritual, a way to nurture the dream of a boy who wanted to become an astrophysicist, who promised with stubborn certainty that he would one day build a rocket to Pluto.
But life shattered those dreams without warning. After Robert’s death, the fund was left untouched. Neither Clara nor Martin could bring themselves to close it or withdraw from it. It became sacred, a silent reminder of everything their son had been and everything he would never have the chance to be.
Two years ago, they tried to heal by trying for another child. Clara yearned to feel like a mother again, to fill the empty spaces in the house with the sound of small footsteps. But after months of negative pregnancy tests and mounting heartbreak, hope began to feel like a cruel joke. Martin tried to comfort her with gentle words and quiet embraces, but the grief hung over them like a permanent shadow.
Their families knew about their struggles. They saw how hard Clara and Martin were trying. Some were kind. Others, like Martin’s sister Amber, seemed to treat grief as if it were a spectacle—something to observe and criticize rather than a burden to carry. Amber came often after Robert died, but she never helped. Instead, she sat in their living room, sipping tea, eyes sharp with judgment as though she were tallying how well or poorly Clara and Martin were “performing” their sorrow.
So when Clara agreed to host a simple family dinner for Martin’s birthday, she should have expected Amber to bring drama. The evening began well. The house filled with the scent of lamb and rosemary potatoes, and Jay brought his famous lemon tart. Clara baked a triple chocolate and raspberry cake, the kind Robert had always helped decorate, pressing candies into the frosting with sticky fingers.
As everyone gathered around the table and the candles were lit, there was a brief flicker of peace. For a moment, Clara felt Robert’s absence soften into memory rather than raw pain.
Then Amber cleared her throat.
“Martin,” she said, setting down her wine glass. “I can’t stay quiet anymore. How long are you planning to let Robert’s college fund sit there? It’s clear you and Clara aren’t having another child. It’s been two years. Meanwhile, Steven is about to graduate. He needs that money.”
The table went silent. Martin froze. Clara’s heart pounded like a drum in her chest.
Jay was the first to respond, his fork clattering against his plate before he stood. “Amber, if you want to discuss that fund, then let’s. It was created for Robert—just as we created one for Steven. Equal contributions, because fairness mattered to us.”
Amber’s face flushed as Jay continued. “But you drained Steven’s fund when he was fifteen to pay for a Disney vacation. You said it was for the memories. We didn’t argue, but don’t pretend Clara and Martin are sitting on something that belongs to you.”
Amber sputtered. “That trip meant the world to him.”
“And this fund meant the world to Robert,” Jay said evenly. “It was for his dreams. Clara and Martin added to it themselves. It’s theirs to protect.”
He turned his gaze toward Steven. “And let’s be honest. If he showed real drive, we’d all help him. But he skips school, lies about homework, and spends his time glued to TikTok. You keep making excuses, Amber. That’s not helping him—it’s crippling him.”
Steven shifted uncomfortably. Amber glanced around, searching for support, but no one moved.
Finally, Clara stood, her voice trembling yet steady. “You’re right, Amber. No one is using that money. Because it belongs to Robert. Every dollar in that account came from moments of hope—birthdays, bonuses, coins we could’ve spent but didn’t, because we believed in his future. To take it away now would erase him all over again.”
Amber had no response. She grabbed her purse, muttered something under her breath, and stormed out, leaving only silence behind her.
Later that night, Clara sat in Robert’s old room, holding the telescope still smudged with his fingerprints. Martin joined her quietly, placing his hand gently on her back. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The silence carried everything words could not.
That fund was not money waiting to be claimed. It was lullabies and stargazing. It was Robert’s laughter echoing in the kitchen. It was the promise of a boy who once dreamed of Pluto.
Amber may never understand that. But Clara and Martin knew: protecting that fund meant protecting Robert’s memory. And sometimes, the only way to honor the past is to stand firm in the present.
One day, maybe, if fate allowed, it would help another child in their family reach for the stars. But not today. And never for someone who saw grief as nothing more than an opportunity.