Clutching a photograph of my late son, Peter, I reflected on what life might have been if he were still alive. He was a vibrant young man with dreams of attending Yale, a goal he achieved before his life was tragically cut short by a drunk driver.

Peter lived with me after my divorce from his mother, Susan, when he was 12. She remarried and focused on bonding with her stepson, Ryan. Peter spent one summer with them but later confided in me that he felt emotionally distanced and never wanted to stay there again.

Peter had a passion for sketching, and the photo I held was taken the day before his Yale acceptance. Lost in memories, I was interrupted by a knock on the door—it was Susan.

We hadn’t spoken much since Peter’s passing, so I was shocked when she requested something unthinkable. She asked if I would use Peter’s college savings to fund Ryan’s education, claiming it would honor Peter’s wishes.

I was furious. “Use Peter’s money for someone he barely knew? You have to be insane,” I said, reminding her of the emotional distance Peter felt from her family and the hurtful comments her husband had made about him. Susan insisted, but I stood firm and told her to leave.

The next day, I booked a trip to Belgium, a place Peter dreamed of visiting. Walking the streets and exploring the museums he admired, I felt his spirit with me.

When I returned, I used the remainder of his fund to start a foundation supporting young artists like Peter. This was the way to truly honor his memory and legacy.