The past had a way of crashing into the present at the worst possible moments.  

Five years had passed since we lost Robert. Five years since his laughter—bright and uncontainable—had filled our kitchen as he tinkered with soda-bottle rockets, dreaming of Pluto and beyond. But grief didn’t follow a timeline. Some days, the weight of his absence still stole my breath.  

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And then there was Amber.  

Martin’s sister had a habit of mistaking entitlement for concern. She’d arrived at his birthday dinner with her usual air of judgment, her son Steven glued to his phone, oblivious to the family around him.  

I should’ve known the evening wouldn’t stay peaceful.  

The cake—triple chocolate with raspberry, Robert’s favorite—sat in the center of the table. Candles flickered as we sang, the melody softer than it used to be, as if we were afraid joy might crack under the weight of memory.  

Then Amber set down her wine glass with deliberate precision.  

*"Martin,"* she began, voice dripping with false sympathy, *"how long are you going to let that college fund just sit there?"*  

The room froze.  

My fingers tightened around my fork. That fund wasn’t just money—it was lullabies whispered in the dark, dog-eared astronomy books, the echo of a child’s voice saying, *"I’m gonna build a rocket, Mom."*  

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Amber plowed ahead, undeterred. *"Steven’s graduating soon. He needs that money. It’s not like you’re having another kid."*  

The cruelty of it hit like a slap. Two years of negative tests, of silent tears into my pillow, of Martin holding me wordlessly—all reduced to a callous footnote in her argument.  

Before I could speak, Jay—Martin’s father—stood. His voice was calm, but his knuckles whitened around his napkin.  

*"That fund was for Robert,"* he said. *"Just like we made one for Steven. But you drained his for a Disney trip. Don’t rewrite history now."*  

Amber flushed. *"That vacation was important!"*  

*"And Robert’s education wasn’t?"* Jay’s quiet fury cut deeper than shouting. *"Clara and Martin added to that fund themselves—for his future. Not for someone who treats money like an inheritance lottery."*  

Steven finally looked up from his phone. *"So I’m just screwed?"*  

Jay didn’t flinch. *"No. You’re capable. Get a job. Apply for aid. But don’t expect a reward for existing."*  

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The room hummed with tension. Amber’s lips thinned. *"It’s not like anyone’s using it,"* she muttered.  

Something in me shattered.  

*"You’re right,"* I said, standing. *"No one’s using it. Because it was his. And you don’t get to erase that."*  

For the first time, Amber looked shaken. She grabbed her purse and left without another word, Steven trailing behind with a dramatic sigh.  

Later, my phone buzzed with her parting shot:  

*"I thought you loved Steven like your own. Guess not."*  

I deleted it. Love wasn’t transactional. It wasn’t a weapon to wield when guilt failed.  

That night, Martin found me in Robert’s room, his old telescope cradled in my lap, the lens still smudged with fingerprints. He sat beside me, his hand warm on my back, silence wrapping around us like armor.  

The fund would stay untouched. Not out of selfishness, but because some things couldn’t be replaced—dreams least of all.  

One day, if fate allowed, it might help another child reach for the stars.  

But not today.  

And never for someone who saw grief as a line item in a ledger.