When Clara’s sister-in-law makes a cruel demand at a family gathering, old grief collides with quiet rage. Caught between loss and legacy, Clara must defend what remains of her son’s memory — and draw the line between love and entitlement.
Five years have passed since we lost our son Robert. He was eleven — I still hear his bright, joyful laughter as he built soda-bottle rockets on the kitchen floor. He loved constellations, pointing out Orion’s Belt in the backyard like he discovered it himself.
Before Robert was born, his grandparents gave us money to start a college fund — “a head start,” his grandfather said, so our child wouldn’t carry debt before his life even began. Over the years, Martin and I added birthday gifts, bonuses, tax returns — anything extra — until the fund became a ritual, a promise for Robert’s future.
Robert wanted to be an astrophysicist; he dreamed of building a rocket to reach Pluto. His little fingers traced constellations in his books with a seriousness that broke my heart — in the best way.
After he died, we froze the account. We couldn’t bring ourselves to log in. It became a sacred shrine of hope we couldn’t dismantle. When we tried for another baby two years ago, I needed to feel like a mother again. Martin asked, “Like… for real?” I wasn’t ready. But I said yes anyway.