I sat on Peter’s bed, surrounded by his things—books, medals, a half-finished sketch. He loved to draw when he wasn’t buried in books or solving problems beyond me.
“You were too smart for me, kid,” I muttered, picking up a framed photo. His crooked grin stared back at me. Yale had accepted him, but he never got to go. A drunk driver made sure of that.
A knock at the door. Susan. “We need to talk about Peter’s fund,” she had said earlier. Now, here she was.
I let her in. “Make it quick.”
She sat, all business. “Ryan could really use that money.”
I scoffed. “That was Peter’s future, not your stepson’s.”
At the café the next morning, Susan and Jerry made their case. “It’s just sitting there,” Jerry said.
I leaned forward. “You let Peter eat cereal while you had steak. You don’t deserve a cent.”
Back home, I sat in Peter’s room, staring at his map. Belgium was circled in red. His dreams weren’t theirs to take
