I’m Scott, a single father who six months ago buried his 15-year-old son, Ben. At the funeral, everyone showed up, promised to stay close… and then disappeared—except Daniel, Ben’s 16-year-old best friend.
Daniel was there through Ben’s three-year battle, drawing new comic pages, visiting daily—even when family and friends faded away. One night, Ben asked me to promise that if he didn’t make it, Daniel would get his college fund. I promised. Ben passed a few weeks later.
After the funeral, Daniel knocked on my door with a wooden box full of hospital bracelets, a photo of the boys laughing, and a note: “Thanks for being the best friend ever.” From then on, every Tuesday, we remembered Ben—laughing, crying, or sitting in silence.
When Daniel told me he might not go to college—working part-time to help at home—I felt Ben’s wish. At a family dinner, I announced I’d give Ben’s \$25,000 fund to Daniel. My relatives erupted: “He’s not family!” but hadn’t shown up or supported us. Daniel had.
I challenged them: “What do you even remember about Ben’s last day? Daniel does.” They couldn’t answer. I said, “Daniel was family to Ben—and to me.”
Three weeks later, I helped Daniel move into his dorm, where his desk had engineering textbooks and sketches he’d drawn for Ben. Daniel said, “I’ll make you and Ben proud.” I said, “You already have.” The roommate added, “Your dad seems cool.” Daniel smiled: “Yeah. He is.”
Sometimes, the family that matters isn’t blood—it’s the one you choose.