That night, long after the dishes were done and the candles burned low, Clara’s phone buzzed.
A text from Amber: “You’re so selfish, Clara. I thought you loved Steven like your own. Guess not.”
Because real love isn’t a transaction. And grief isn’t something you barter with to get what you want.
That college fund wasn’t just a bank account.
It was the rocket ships Robert built out of soda bottles.
It was the constellations he mapped in his notebook.
It was lullabies, and bedtime stories, and soft whispers in the dark.
To use it now would be to bury him all over again.
Holding On to What Matters
The next morning, Martin found Clara sitting on the floor of Robert’s room, cradling his old telescope.
Martin sat beside her in silence, his hand warm against her back.
Sometimes love doesn’t need to be spoken.
Sometimes, it just needs to be protected.
Robert may be gone—but his legacy, his spirit, and his dreams live on in that fund.
And one day, if life allows, another child may look through that same telescope.
Maybe even aim for the stars.
But that future will come on love’s terms.
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