Later, after the dishes were done and the house quiet, my phone buzzed. A text from Amber.
“You’re so selfish, Clara. I thought you loved Steven like your own. Guess not.”
I stared at the message, then deleted it without replying.
Because love isn’t about guilt. It’s not transactional. And it’s definitely not something you weaponize when you don’t get your way.
That fund wasn’t just money. It was lullabies. Science kits. Dog-eared pages in astronomy books. Glue-covered soda rockets launched with wild hope.
It was Robert’s dream, frozen in time.
To take it now would be like losing him all over again. And I’ve already buried more than any mother should.
The next morning, Martin found me sitting on the floor in Robert’s room. I’d pulled down his old telescope. Still smudged with his fingerprints.
Martin sat beside me without a word, hand warm on my back.
We sat in the silence—the kind that holds, not judges.
Sometimes, the only way to honor someone is to protect what they left behind.
Robert may be gone, but that fund keeps his name alive.
It carries our hope.
And it holds everything Amber never understood.
One day—if fate allows—it may help another child reach for the stars.
But not today.
And not for someone who treats grief like a forgotten checkbook.
