misheard her. But I hadn’t. As I sat across from her and her smug new husband, their intentions became painfully clear. This wasn’t about money—it was about preserving my son’s legacy.

I was sitting on Evan’s bed when the call came. His room hadn’t changed since the accident—textbooks still stacked by the desk, sketchbooks half-finished, and medals from science fairs and math leagues hanging by the window.

“You were always ten steps ahead of me, kid,” I muttered, running my fingers along the edge of a framed photo on the nightstand. Evan’s grin—half mischief, half brilliance—seemed to wink at me from the glass. That photo was taken right before he got into Stanford. My brilliant boy. He never even got to see the campus. The drunk driver made sure of that.

I was still sitting there when the knock came.

It was Mia—my ex-wife. She’d left a message earlier: “We need to talk about Evan’s fund.” Her tone was warm, but too smooth, too rehearsed.

Now, here she was in my doorway.

“Can I come in?” she asked, stepping inside before I could respond.

I motioned toward the living room. “Make it fast.”

She perched on the edge of the couch like she owned the place. “We know Evan had a college fund,” she began, completely casual.

My stomach twisted. “You’re not serious.”

Her eyes flickered, but she smiled. “Think about it. That money isn’t being used. Kyle could really benefit.”