Long before Robert was born, Clara and Martin had sat at the old oak table in his parents’ home, feeling overwhelmed and hopeful. Jay, Martin’s father, had slid an envelope across the table with a steady hand and a warm smile.
“A little head start,” he said. “So he won’t have to carry debt before his life begins.”
Over the years, they added to the college fund quietly and consistently. Work bonuses. Birthday checks. Leftover refunds. The small things that, when pieced together, spoke volumes about love and commitment. That account didn’t just hold money—it held dreams. His dreams.
And when Robert died, they never touched a cent.
They couldn’t.
It sat in the account like an altar—sacred and still. Untouched not out of neglect, but reverence. Clara couldn’t bear to log in. Couldn’t bear to see a number with no child to spend it on.
Trying Again—and the Pain That Followed
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