I was sitting on Evan’s bed, the place where silence echoed the loudest, when the message came in.
“We need to talk about Evan’s fund.”
Those words—so casually typed by my ex-wife, Mia—landed like a punch to the chest.
Evan’s room was exactly how he left it. Books still piled on his desk, his sketchpad open to half-finished dreams, and the Stanford hoodie draped across his chair like he’d just taken it off. I visited the room every evening, like a ritual—like maybe, if I sat long enough, he’d walk back in.
But Evan was gone. Killed by a drunk driver just two months before his freshman year.
I hadn’t responded to Mia’s message. I didn’t want to. But she showed up anyway, standing on my porch with that same glossy look she always wore when she was about to say something outrageous.
“Can I come in?” she asked, stepping inside before I could answer.
She didn’t come alone. Her new husband, Russell, trailed in behind her, smug and silent.
I stayed standing. “What’s this about?”
Mia didn’t waste time. “We know Evan had a college fund.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t need it anymore,” she said, as if she were talking about unused furniture. “Kyle—Russell’s son—he just got into college. He could really use the help.”
Kyle. The boy Evan met once. Maybe twice.
I stared at her in disbelief. “That money was Evan’s. I set it aside before you even left.”
Russell finally spoke. “Look, man. He’s gone. That money shouldn’t just rot in a bank account.”
I could barely breathe. Rot?
“You left when Evan was twelve,” I said slowly, fighting to stay calm. “You missed his science fairs, his late-night study sessions, his heartbreaks. I raised him. I buried him. And now you want to raid his legacy for your stepson?”
Mia flinched, but Russell just crossed his arms.
