Peter’s room was too quiet now, the air heavy with absence. His belongings were scattered everywhere—books, medals, and a half-finished sketch still on his desk. I picked up a photo frame from his nightstand, his crooked grin staring back at me. It was taken just before my brilliant boy got into Yale. But he never made it there. A drunk driver ended that dream in November, leaving me adrift in waves of grief that sometimes let me breathe, but often didn’t.

Susan knocked on the door that day, her practiced smile masking her intent. “Peter’s college fund,” she began, sitting uninvited in my living room. “Ryan could use it for school. It’s just sitting there.” Her audacity stunned me. I snapped, “That money was for Peter, not your stepson.” Her calm broke, but she persisted, claiming Peter would have wanted to help. I couldn’t contain my fury—Susan, who left when Peter was 12, who barely cared for him, had no right to his legacy.

Later, I sat on Peter’s bed, replaying Susan’s words and the years of raising him alone. He was my world, and I was his. Susan’s fleeting efforts at connection always fell short. Peter once confided in me about the summer he spent with her and Jerry: cereal for dinner, no real care. “They don’t care about me, Dad,” he’d said softly. He was right, and I never sent him back. Through it all, Peter’s dreams flourished, from Yale to traveling to Belgium. “We’ll see the castles and beer monks,” he’d joke. Now, it was all out of reach.

Back home, Peter’s map of Europe caught my eye, Belgium circled in red. The idea crystallized. Logging into his college fund account, I made the decision. That money was for Peter, for his dream. A week later, I boarded a plane with his photo in my pocket, heading to the places he’d wanted to see. Each museum, castle, and canal felt like walking beside him, his laughter and curiosity alive in my mind.

On the final night, I sat by a glowing canal, holding his photo against the shimmering water. “We made it,” I whispered. For the first time in months, the ache in my chest eased. Though Peter was gone, his dream and spirit lived on in this journey. No one could ever take that away from us.