Peter would have wanted to help.”
“Don’t you dare speak for Peter,” I snapped. “He barely knew Ryan. And let’s not pretend you cared about Peter either.”
Susan stiffened, her smile faltering.
“That’s not fair.”
“No?” I leaned forward, keeping my voice steady. “Let’s talk about fair. Fair is raising a kid, showing up for them, being there when it counts.
I did that for Peter. You didn’t. You sent him to me because you were too busy with your ‘new family.’ And now you think you’re entitled to his legacy?”
Jerry’s smugness cracked for a second.
He recovered quickly. “Look, it’s not about entitlement. It’s about doing the right thing.”
“The right thing?” I laughed bitterly.
“Like the summer Peter stayed with you? Remember that? Fourteen years old, and you wouldn’t even buy him dinner.
You let him eat cereal while you and Susan had steak.”
Jerry’s face reddened, but he said nothing.
“That’s not true,” Susan said quickly, her voice shaky. “You’re twisting things.”
“No, I’m not,” I said sharply. “Peter told me himself.
He tried to connect with you two. He wanted to believe you cared. But you didn’t.”
Jerry slammed his coffee cup onto the table.
“You’re being ridiculous. Do you know how hard it is to raise a kid these days?”
“I do,” I shot back. “I raised Peter without a dime from either of you.
So don’t you dare lecture me.”
The coffee shop had gone quiet. People were staring, but I didn’t care. I stood, glaring at both of them.
“You don’t deserve a cent of that fund. It’s not yours. It never will be.”
Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked out.
Back home, I sat in Peter’s room again.
The confrontation replayed in my mind, but it didn’t make the ache in my chest any lighter.
I picked up his photo from the desk — the one of us on his birthday. “They don’t get it, buddy,” I said softly. “They never did.”
I looked around the room, taking in the books, the drawings, the little pieces of him that still felt so alive here.
My eyes landed on the map of Europe tacked to his wall. Belgium was circled in bright red marker.
“We were supposed to go,” I whispered. “You and me.
The museums, the castles, the beer monks.” I chuckled softly, my voice breaking. “You really had it all planned out.”
The ache in my chest deepened, but then something shifted. A new thought, a new resolve.
I opened my laptop and logged into the 529 Plan account.
As I stared at the balance, I knew what to do. That money wasn’t for Ryan. It wasn’t for anyone else.
It was for Peter. For us.
“I’m doing it,” I said aloud. “Belgium.
Just like we said.”
A week later, I was on a plane, Peter’s photo tucked safely in my jacket pocket. The seat beside me was empty, but it didn’t feel that way. I gripped the armrest as the plane lifted off, my heart pounding.
“Hope you’re here with me, kid,” I whispered, glancing at his picture.
The trip was everything we’d dreamed of.
I walked through grand museums, stood in awe at towering castles, and even visited a brewery run by monks. I imagined Peter’s excitement, crooked grin, and endless questions at every stop.
On the last night, I sat by the canal, the city lights reflecting on the water. I pulled out Peter’s photo and held it up to the view.
“This is for you,” I said quietly.
“We made it.”
For the first time in months, the ache in my chest felt lighter. Peter was gone, but he was with me. And this — this was our dream.
I wouldn’t let anyone take it away.
Source: amomama
