In mourning for her 16-year-old daughter, a mother plans to contribute the college fund, but her estranged stepdaughter demands it. A single event changes everything when her husband supports his daughter.
Have you noticed how your worst recollections become muddled? Antiseptic fragrance and machine beeping?
My daughter’s death was remembered this way.
She touched my hand before she was taken for emergency surgery, and the doctor had a mole on his chin.
His words are etched in my mind: “We tried everything, but her wounds were too severe…”
No memory of the ride home. My brain seems to have stopped recording.
Emma was sixteen. A truck ran a red light and hit her on her way home from the library. The good youngster with big hopes is gone.
I stayed in her bedroom for a few days, smelling her and preserving her possessions.
Tom, my ex-husband, caught me in my black dress with Emma’s sweatshirt the day before the burial.
He sat next to me on Emma’s bed with a climate change book from the nightstand.
“She was going to change the world,” he muttered.
We cried looking at each other.
Tom and I remained friends after our divorce. We got along better as co-parents than when we were married. He attended my wedding to Frank two years before.
In tears, he stated, “She told me she had decided which college she wanted to attend.”
“UC Davis,” I said. “She said they had the best environmental science program in the nation.”
How will we proceed? Without her?
“I dunno, Tom. No idea.”
Tom and I discussed Emma’s college money a week after her funeral. Tom and I had accumulated $25,000 over 10 years, and Emma had made every penny serving boardwalk ice cream last summer.
She was proud of her work. Came home every night smelling like vanilla and salt air, talking about preserving the ocean one recyclable cup at a time.
“Maybe it sounds silly, but it doesn’t feel right to take that money back,” he remarked.
“I understand. I was thinking… Tom received some printed pages I found in Emma’s room. “What if we gave her college fund to charity?”
Reading the pages, Tom’s eyes filled with emotion. He nodded.
Emma used to support two religious climate organizations, so we split the monies. One sponsored South American forestry, while the other helped young women become environmentalists.
Feeling right. More importantly, it appeared like her choice with us.
Tom and I finally felt like we were doing something meaningful after she died.
“She’d be proud of us,” Tom added, emotional.
Nodding, I held a Kleenex. She could say we were finally getting it right.”
We laughed some. Can you believe? Despite the sorrow, we found joy.
My stepdaughter arrived and nearly wrecked everything.
Amber was 30, three years younger than me, and she would remind me. Her distaste for me was obvious from the start.
She surprised me by arriving at my doorstep with empathy.
She said, “Hey,” entering my entryway without permission. You know, I heard about… An accident. So sorry.”
The practiced words fell flat. Like she practiced in the vehicle.
I said “thank you” because what else do you say?
She followed me into the kitchen, heels clicking on floor. “I was wondering… How are you spending Emily’s college money?
I blinked, surprised by the sudden change.
This is Emma. Her name was Emma. And we donate. Her father and I are sharing it between two causes she cared about.
Amber frowned. Wait, what? You giving it away? Are you kidding? So silly! Give it to me. “We are family.”
Family. The word slapped me.
She called me a gold-digger at her father’s 58th birthday celebration and told everyone he knew I was his “midlife crisis.”
“That fund was for my daughter’s future,” I said cautiously. “You didn’t know her.”
Amber crossed her arms in offense. “So? Am I not your daughter? When inconvenient, do stepchildren not count?
I laughed a sharp, harsh chuckle that surprised me. Because I realized its full audacity then.
After years of regarding me as an invasion in her father’s life, this woman claimed family privilege over my deceased child’s education fund.
My spouse entered with arms folded and a harsh face.
He said, “Babe, Amber’s got a point. «Charity can wait»
I surrounded him. “What? When I informed you Tom and I were donating the money, you agreed it was Emma’s wish.”
“I understand, but donating $13,000 to two charities is insignificant in the big picture. Amber says that much money changes her life. Possibly a house down payment. Honor Emma in different ways.”
It drives me crazy. Like ice under strain, keeping together but changing.
I buried a child. The little girl who made me Mother’s Day cards was gone, and this man was bartering like we were dividing rummage sale furniture.
“Okay,” I said calmly. Under one condition.”
Amber smiled, possibly thinking she won.
I moved forward and faced her.
“Tell me, Amber… Who mocked me for two years as a gold-digger and sugar-baby? Who told me I’d never be your family, didn’t send a card when Emma died, and got her name wrong when asking for her money?
I moved forward to face her.
“You’re being petty,” Frank remarked. “Just money. She’s not requesting Emma’s personal items.”
“Petty?” I repeated. Fine, let’s call it that, if you like, but I vow to both of you now that I would rather take every last cent of that money and throw it in the trash than give it to you,” I said to Amber, “you selfish, heartless little opportunist.”
I finished before she spoke. I am done with her, Frank, and pretending that marriage meant tolerating abuse by proxy.
I left before they finished.
My name was removed from the college fund account and the sum transferred to Tom that night.
After telling him about the transfer, I texted, “Emma’s money is safest with you.” “I’ll explain everything soon.”
I divorced the next morning.
There were no fights or tears.
I spoke coldly: “You showed me who you are, Frank. Now I trust you.
Frank stared at me from across the kitchen table, possibly shocked that the woman he’d never met had packed her life into two suitcases.
“You’re doing this?” he asked. Over cash?
“No,” I said. “I’m doing it out of respect, loyalty, and your choice of Amber’s entitlement over my grief.”
He didn’t beg. Sat there studying his compliant wife’s spine.
I wasn’t leaving broken. Walking toward something. Something my daughter would approve of.
Tom and I are starting an Emma-named scholarship.
A real future for girls like her will replace a charity drop in the ocean. Girls that care, have excellent ideas, and want to help the earth one reusable cup at a time.
Environmental Leadership Scholarship. Has it a nice ring?
Amber may announce her “down payment” to others.