It’s been five years since we lost our son, Cosmo. He was eleven.
My goodness, that laugh of his, bright, wild, the kind that shook his whole body, used to ring through the kitchen while he built soda-bottle rockets on the floor. He loved the stars. He’d point out Orion’s Belt in our backyard like he’d just discovered it himself.
Before he was even born, Dashiell’s parents gave us a generous amount to start his college fund. We were sitting around their old walnut dining table when Philip pulled out an envelope and slid it across the polished wood toward us.
“It’s a head start,” he said, his voice gentle. “So he never has to start life carrying debt.”
Dashiell looked at me, eyes wide with quiet shock. The nursery wasn’t even painted yet.
I remember holding that envelope with both hands, afraid it would disappear if I blinked.
“Thank you,” I whispered, overwhelmed. “He’s not even here yet… and you already believe in him.”
“He’s my grandson, Calla,” Philip smiled. “That’s what we do.”
Over the years, Dashiell and I kept adding to the account, little by little. Birthday money, bonuses, tax refunds, whatever we could spare. Every extra dollar went in. It became our ritual, not just saving, but watching a future grow.
It was about helping Cosmo get closer to his dreams.
He wanted to be an astrophysicist. He once told me, completely serious, that he was going to build a rocket that could reach Pluto. His little fingers traced constellations in his books with total certainty.
But life never warns you before it breaks you, does it?
After Cosmo passed, we never touched the account. We didn’t even mention it. I couldn’t log in, couldn’t look at the number that once meant hope. It stayed there, untouched, sacred. A shrine we couldn’t bring ourselves to take apart.
Two years ago, we started trying again. I needed to feel like a mother again. I needed joy that didn’t hurt.
“Do you think it’s time?” I whispered to Dashiell one night. “For real?”
“Only if you’re ready,” he answered right away.
I wasn’t. But I said yes anyway.
And so began another kind of heartbreak.
I didn’t even know if I was ready… but the emptiness had sharp edges now. Every negative test felt like the universe pausing just to say, You don’t get to hope again.
Each time, I buried the test in the trash with shaking hands and crawled into bed without a word. I curled toward the wall. Dashiell followed, arms around me, no questions, no empty words. Just there.
We didn’t need to speak. The silence already said everything.
“Maybe it’s not meant to be,” I whispered once into the dark.
“Maybe just… not yet,” Dashiell whispered back, kissing my shoulder.
Everyone in the family knew we were trying. They knew we were struggling.
And Margot?
She pretended to care. But her eyes always told the truth.
Dashiell’s sister watched our grief like she was judging a performance. She’d tilt her head, deciding if our pain was real or just for show.
She visited often after Cosmo died, but never to help. She never asked what we needed. She’d sit in the corner with her tea and too much perfume, eyes flicking over the photos on the mantel, waiting for us to forget who was missing.
So when we hosted Dashiell’s birthday last week, just family, I should’ve known better than to let my guard down.
“We’ll keep it small,” I told Dashiell. “Just cake, dinner, something simple.”
“If you’re up for it, Calla,” he smiled gently. “Then I’m happy.”
We cooked all morning. The house smelled of roast lamb, rosemary potatoes, and the lemon tart Philip brought. Margot brought her usual superiority.
Tate, her seventeen-year-old, brought his phone and nothing else.
Cosmo always helped decorate the cake. He’d stand on his little stool beside me, pressing chocolate buttons into the frosting with sticky fingers, humming whatever song he learned that week.
This time I did it alone. Three layers of chocolate and raspberry. Dashiell and Cosmo’s favorite.
I lit the candles. Philip dimmed the lights. We started singing, soft, careful, like joy might shatter. For a moment Dashiell actually smiled.
Just a little.
And then Margot cleared her throat.
“Okay,” she said, setting her wine glass down with too much drama, like she was about to give a toast. “I can’t stay quiet anymore. Dashiell, how long are you two going to sit on that college fund?”
The room froze.
My heart thudded once, slow and heavy.
She went on.
“It’s obvious you’re not having another child. Two years of trying and nothing. And honestly, Calla, you’re getting up there in age. Meanwhile I have a son who actually needs that money. Tate’s graduating soon. That fund should go to him.”
I looked around the table, waiting for someone to stop her. My breath caught. Dashiell’s face went empty, like a door had slammed shut inside him.
Tate stayed glued to his phone.
Philip’s fork hit his plate with a sharp clink. Then he pushed his chair back and stood, slow and steady.
“Margot,” he said, voice low but unshaken. “You want to talk about that fund? Let’s talk.”
Margot blinked, caught off guard.
Philip faced her fully now.
“That account was opened for Cosmo before he was born, just like the one we opened for Tate. Your mother and I put in the exact same amount for both grandsons. We believed in fairness.”
Tate finally looked up. Margot stiffened.
“But you spent Tate’s,” Philip said plainly. “Every cent. You took it out when he was fifteen for that Disney trip. You called it memories. I didn’t fight you. But don’t come here pretending Cosmo got something your son didn’t.”
Margot’s cheeks burned.
“That trip meant everything to my son,” she said.
“And now you want a do-over?” Philip’s voice stayed calm; that made it cut deeper. “No. That money wasn’t a handout. It was a long-term plan. You chose instant gratification. Calla and Dashiell kept adding to theirs because they refused to throw it away.”
He looked at Tate, who shrank in his seat.
“Your son would have had our full support if he showed any effort. But he skips class, lies about deadlines, and lives on his phone. Every time you rescue him, Margot, you’re crippling him.”
Margot looked around; no one came to her defense.
“This fund isn’t a prize for existing,” Philip said. “It was meant for a child who worked hard and dreamed big. If Tate wants college money, he can earn scholarships. Or get a job.”
He looked her straight in the eye. “And tonight you humiliated your brother and his wife. They’re still grieving their child, still trying to heal, and you insult them about trying for another baby? I’ll be revisiting my will, Margot.”
Margot’s mouth twitched. Her jaw locked.
I stared at my lap; my hands were trembling.
Then she muttered under her breath, “It’s not like anyone’s using that damn money.”
Something in me broke.
I stood. My voice wasn’t loud, but the room was so quiet it carried.
“You’re right,” I said, looking straight at her. “No one’s using it. Because it belongs to my son. The one you just erased.”
She stared, shocked I’d spoken.
“That money isn’t some forgotten pot waiting to be handed out, Margot. It’s his memory. It’s Cosmo’s legacy. Every dollar came from love. Birthday gifts, bonuses we worked for, spare change we could have spent on ourselves, but we didn’t. We were building his future. A future that never came.”
My throat closed. Tears pressed hard, but I wouldn’t let them fall in front of her.
“Maybe one day, if we’re lucky, it will help his sibling the way we wanted to help Cosmo. But until then, it stays exactly where it is. Off-limits.”
Margot stood stiffly, grabbed her purse, and left without a word. The front door closed with a soft, final click.
“And what about me?” Tate asked, frowning. “She just forgets I exist? Typical.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” I said. “Grandpa and Uncle Dashiell will get you home.”
“Just eat your dinner, son,” Philip said. “We have lemon tart and chocolate cake left. Your mother needs a moment to think about her life.”
Dashiell reached over and took my hand. His grip was tight, steady.
“Hey,” he whispered. “You did good.”
“I hated saying it out loud,” I told him.
“I know,” he said, thumb brushing my knuckles. “But someone had to.”
Later that night, after the dishes were done and the house was quiet again, my phone buzzed. Margot.
“You’re so selfish, Calla. I thought you loved Tate like your own. Clearly not enough to help his future.”
I stared at the screen until the words blurred. I typed replies, deleted them, typed again, deleted again.
In the end I said nothing. I didn’t owe her an answer.
Because real love isn’t built on guilt. It isn’t currency. And it isn’t a weapon you use when your entitlement isn’t met.
Cosmo’s fund isn’t just money. It’s lullabies in the dark, science kits on Christmas morning, dog-eared pages in astronomy books, sticky soda-bottle rockets built with hope.
That money is the future he never got to touch. Taking it now would be another kind of death.
And I’ve already buried enough of my child to last a lifetime.
The next morning Dashiell found me on the floor of Cosmo’s room. The closet was open. I had pulled down the telescope, still smudged with his fingerprints.
He didn’t ask questions. He just sat beside me and rested his hand on my back.
We stayed there, in the quiet that holds space instead of shame.
Sometimes honoring someone means protecting what they left behind.
Our Cosmo may be gone, but he’s not gone from us. And as long as that fund stays untouched, it carries his name.
It carries our hope.
It carries everything Margot will never understand.
And one day, if the stars are kind, it will help another little soul reach for the sky.
But not today.
And definitely not for someone who thinks grief is just a bank account waiting to be emptied.