Grief weighs strangely. Not until someone takes something from it do you realize how hefty it is.
I received the call in Evan’s room. He left his sketchbooks open mid-doodle and his Stanford admission letter on the corkboard, calm and frozen.
Voice on phone was familiar. Calm. Practiced.
“Hey. My name is Mia. We must discuss Evan’s college fund.”
I delayed responding. Just stared at the nightstand photo—Evan, seventeen, eyes full of plans.
Universe thwarted his plans.
Mia arrived the next day. No warning. Just a knock, and she entered my home like her own.
Not long after sitting, she stated it.
“You should consider using Evan’s college money for Kyle’s tuition.”
Kyle. Her new husband’s teen kid. A kid Evan rarely spoke to. This youngster hadn’t sent a card when Evan died, as far as I knew.
I fixated on her.
“You’re serious.”
She nodded sincerely. Kyle is trying hard, but it’s just sitting there. He has potential.”
I spoke quietly. “You mean, you and Russell want my dead son’s college fund for his kid?”
“Don’t say that.”
“How else to put it?”
She boldly suggested adults converse more. Next day coffee invitation. Said Russell would attend.
I remained silent. Inside, something broke.
I sat on Evan’s bed again that night. He remembered lounging and talking about distant cities and Renaissance art, and one day drinking Belgian beer from the abbey.
“I’m gonna stand under a real European castle, Dad,” he stated. First, Stanford. Then world.”
Not past senior year. Drunk driver snatched that.
The mother who left when he was twelve intended to use his dreams for someone else.
Someone who slept through Evan’s illness.
Not someone who taught him how to shave, build science fair volcanoes, or read college essays about “curiosity as a compass.”
She left everything to me.
I cooked lunches. I bandaged knees. He shared his nocturnal fears and morning goals.
She texted birthdays.
She wanted what was left of him?
The next morning’s café rendezvous was colder than court.
Russell’s sneer showed his expectation as Mia wore her charm like a garment.
Russell started. “Just saying—it’s logical. Evan’s gone. Kyle is. It may help him get into a good school.”
I was silent for a while. Then I leaned forward.
Do you want me to invest Evan’s unappreciated funds in a boy he barely knew? Whose father made cereal for dinner one summer he visited?
Russell shifted. “That’s unfair.”
“No. You asking like I owe you is unfair.”
Mia sounded harsh. It’s not about owing—Evan wanted—
“You can’t speak for Evan,” I said. “You left. I stayed. You don’t know his wishes.”
Her face froze.
I stood. He wanted to visit Europe. He wanted to be daring. He craved life.”
Russell sneered. “This is emotional.”
“Yes,” I answered. “It is. It will remain that way.”
Then I left.
I followed Evan’s wishes that night.
I opened his 529 college fund. It remained unchanged. Waiting.
It shouldn’t sit there.
Just booked a flight. One Belgium ticket. Brussels, specifically. I packed light. One week’s outfits. Also Evan’s photo.
Trip felt strange.
We saw the art museums he sketched and the cobblestone streets he investigated. I visited castles where knights rode and sipped Ardennes monk-brewed beer.
Whenever I went, I sensed his presence. Tourist laughs. Steps reverberating through huge halls. In stained glass’s holy silence.
Last night, I sat near a canal in Bruges.
Out came Evan’s photo.
“We made it,” I muttered. It took time. But we’re here.”
I felt full for the first time in a while.
Evan’s education fund was never just cash. That was promised. A plan. His dream passport.
Nobody else decides that.
Not Mia.
Not Russell.
Not Kyle.
I honored Evan just properly.
He grinned somewhere in the quiet of a European evening.
