After the death of her 16-year-old daughter, a heartbroken mother intends to donate the college fund in her honor, until her estranged stepdaughter arrives and demands the money for herself. When her spouse sides with his daughter, a single circumstance alters everything.
Have you ever noticed how the worst experiences in your life appear to become muddled memories? The smell of antiseptic and the beeping of machines?
This is how I remember the day my daughter di:ed.
It’s the sensation of her hand in mine before she was whisked away for emergency surgery, and the doctor had a mole on his chin.
It’s the echo of his words burned into my brain: “I’m sorry, we tried everything, but her wounds were too severe…”
I don’t remember the drive home. It’s like my brain just… shut off the recording.
Emma was only sixteen. She was driving home from the library when a truck ran a red light and hit her. She was a good kid with huge hopes, and now she is gone.
I spent the next few days in her bedroom, inhaling her aroma and keeping her belongings close.
My ex-husband, Tom, found me the day before the burial, dressed in my black dress and clutching Emma’s hoodie to my chest.
He picked up a book on climate change from the nightstand and sat near me on Emma’s bed.
“She was going to change the world,” he whispered.
We gazed at each other and fell into tears.
Tom and I had stayed friends following our divorce. If anything, our relationship as co-parents was better than it had been when we were married. He’d even attended my wedding to Frank two years prior.
“She… she told me she’d decided which college she wanted to attend,” he said between sobs.
“UC Davis,” I said. “She said they had the best environmental science program in the country.”
“What will we do now? Without her?”
“I don’t know, Tom. I don’t know.”
A week after Emma’s funeral, Tom and I met to discuss her college fund. Tom and I had saved $25,000 over 10 years, and Emma had earned every dime serving ice cream at the boardwalk last summer.
She’d been really proud of her job. Came home every night smelling like vanilla and salt air, talking about saving the ocean one recyclable cup at a time.
“Maybe it sounds silly, but it doesn’t feel right to take that money back,” he said.
“I know what you mean. I’ve been thinking…” I pulled out some printed pages I’d found in Emma’s room and passed them to Tom. “What if we donated her college fund to charity?”
Tom’s eyes welled up with emotions as he read the pages. He nodded.
We agreed to divide the funds between two climate organizations that Emma used to support religiously. One of them funded reforestation initiatives in South America, while the other assisted young women in pursuing environmental vocations.
It felt right. More than that, it seemed like the decision she would have asked us to make.
For the first time since she died, Tom and I felt like we were accomplishing something worthwhile.
“She’d be proud of us,” Tom said, his voice thick with emotion.
I nodded, clutching a tissue. “She’d probably say we were finally getting it right.”
We even laughed a little. Can you believe it? In the midst of all that pain, we discovered a moment of joy.
Then my stepdaughter showed up and nearly destroyed everything.
Amber was 30, only three years younger than me, and she was going to make sure I never forgot it. She had made it apparent from the beginning that she did not like me.
So I was caught off guard when she showed up on my doorstep oozing empathy.
“Hey,” she said, stepping into my foyer without invitation. “I heard about… you know. The accident. I’m so sorry.”
The words came out flat, rehearsed. Like she’d practiced them in the car.
“Thank you,” I said, because what else do you say?
She followed me into the kitchen, her heels clicking on the hardwood. “So, I was wondering… what are you doing with Emily’s college money?”
I blinked, taken aback by the quick shift.
“This is Emma. Her name was Emma. And we are donating it. Her father and I are dividing it between two causes she cared about.
Amber twisted her lip into a scowl. “Wait, what? Are you giving it away? Are you kidding? That is so foolish! You can give it to me. “We are family.”
Family. The word struck me like a slap.
This from the woman who labeled me a gold-digger at her father’s 58th birthday party and informed everyone he knew that I was his “midlife crisis.”
“That fund was for my daughter’s future,” I explained cautiously. “You didn’t even know her.”
Amber crossed her arms, appearing truly offended. “So? I am your daughter now, am I not? Do stepchildren not count when it is inconvenient?
I laughed, a piercing, bitter laugh that astonished even me. Because at that moment, the full chutzpah of it all struck me.
This woman, who had spent years seeing me as an invader in her father’s life, was now claiming family privilege over my deceased child’s college fund.
That’s when my husband strode in, arms folded and stern expression on his face.
“Babe, Amber’s got a point,” he said. “Charity can wait.”
I rounded on him. “What? But when I told you Tom and I were donating the money, you agreed that it’s what Emma would’ve wanted.”
“I know, but now… well, donating $13,000 to two charities is barely a dent in the big picture. But for Amber, that much money is life-changing. That could be a house down payment. You can honor Emma in other ways.”
Something in me mad. Like ice under pressure, holding together but essentially changed.
I had buried a child. The little girl who used to make me Mother’s Day cards was long gone, and this man was haggling as if we were dividing leftover furniture from a rummage sale.
“Okay,” I replied, my voice steady. “Under one condition.”
Amber brightened up, possibly believing she had won.
I took a step forward and stood directly in front of her, eye to eye.
“Tell me, Amber… who was it that spent the past two years mocking me, calling me a gold-digger and a sugar-baby? Who was it that told me I’d never be your family, who didn’t even send a card when Emma died, and who just had the audacity to get her name wrong while asking for her money?”
I stepped forward until I was standing right in front of her, eye to eye.
“You’re being petty,” Frank said. “It’s just money. It’s not like she’s asking for Emma’s personal stuff.”
“Petty?” I repeated. “Fine, let’s call it that, if you like, but I swear to both of you now that I would sooner take every last cent of that money and throw it in the trash than give it to you,” I pointed at Amber, “you greedy, heartless little opportunist.”
She opened her mouth, but I was finished. I am done with her, with Frank, and with pretending that being married to someone meant tolerating their brutality by proxy.
I fled the room before they could say anything else.
That night, I withdrew my name from the college fund account and transferred the entire balance to Tom.
I texted him, “Emma’s money is safest with you,” when I informed him of the transfer. “I’ll explain everything soon.”
I filed for divorce the next morning.
There were no arguments or tears.
My voice was chilly and flat: “You showed me who you are, Frank. And I believe you now.
Frank looked at me from across the kitchen table, possibly surprised that the lady he’d never actually seen had already packed her life into two suitcases.
“You’re really doing this?” he inquired. “Over money?”
“No,” I replied. “I’m doing it over respect, loyalty, and the fact that you chose Amber’s entitlement over my grief.”
He did not beg. Just sat there, contemplating the fact that his compliant wife had finally developed a spine.
I wasn’t leaving in pieces. I was walking towards something. Something my daughter would have been proud of.
Tom and I are currently establishing a scholarship in Emma’s name.
Instead of a charity drop in the ocean, we’ll be able to provide a genuine future for girls like her. Girls that have great ideas, care deeply, and want to save the planet one recyclable cup at a time.
Environmental Leadership Scholarship. Do you think it has a lovely ring to it?
Amber may shout about her “down payment” to someone else.
