When my ex-wife Mia asked to use our late son Evan’s college fund for her new stepson, I thought I’d misheard. But sitting across from her and her smug husband Russell, it became clear: I hadn’t.
That fund wasn’t just money—it was Evan’s legacy.
I raised Evan alone after Mia left. I packed his lunches, stayed up through exam nights, and cheered at every soccer game. She sent cards—no presence, no real care. Evan once spent a summer with her, only to come home quiet, saying, “They don’t really care, Dad.”
Now she wanted his savings for a boy Evan never knew?
I told her no. Not kindly.
Later, I sat in Evan’s room, staring at his map. Belgium was circled in red—his dream trip. I booked a flight.
A week later, I stood in Belgian museums, churches, even a monastery, Evan’s photo in my pocket. On my last night, by a canal in Bruges, I whispered, “We did it.”
For the first time in months, I breathed again. His dream lived on. And it was ours alone.
