“He was very young. Get over it. We need his trust fund for your sister’s wedding in Greece.”
I stared at my phone screen, my mother’s text message burning into my retinas. My hands trembled as I sat in the funeral home’s parking lot, still wearing the black dress I’d put on that morning. My three-year-old son’s funeral had ended an hour ago. The small casket, the few flowers I could afford, the empty chairs where my family should have been sitting. All of it replayed in my mind like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.
My name is Brienne and I’m thirty-one years old. I work as a lawyer at a midsized firm in Portland, Oregon, handling corporate litigation. For the past three years, I’d been a single mother to my beautiful boy, Ethan. His father left before he was born, and I’d raised my son alone while building my career from the ground up. Every late night studying case files, every early morning before daycare drop-off. Every sacrifice I made, it was all for him.
Three weeks ago, Ethan got sick. What started as a fever turned into something worse. The doctors did everything they could, but his little body just couldn’t fight it anymore. I held his hand as he took his last breath, whispering that Mommy loved him, that everything would be okay.
But nothing was okay. Nothing would ever be okay again.
My family knew about the funeral. I’d sent them the details two weeks ago. My parents lived just forty minutes away in Vancouver, and my younger sister Jessica was staying with them while planning her wedding. I’d asked—no, begged—them to come, to be there for me, to help me say goodbye to my son, their grandson, their nephew.
Instead, they chose a venue tasting for Jessica’s destination wedding.
The text from my mother came with a photo attached. I opened it and there they were—my parents and Jessica, all smiling broadly, holding champagne glasses at some upscale restaurant. The caption read:
“Found the perfect place for the rehearsal dinner. Jessica is going to have the wedding of her dreams.”
My sister had sent her own message.
“Sorry I couldn’t make it today, but you understand, right? This wedding only happens once. Besides, Ethan was just a baby. It’s not like he would have remembered anything anyway.”
I typed back with shaking fingers.
“Whatever makes you happy.”
Then I blocked all their numbers.
People always ask me why I helped my family so much. The truth is complicated. Growing up, I was the responsible one. The one who got good grades, who went to college on scholarships, who became a lawyer while working two jobs. Jessica was the baby, the princess, the one who could do no wrong. And I accepted it, because that’s what families do, right? You help each other.
After law school, when I started making decent money, my parents began asking for help. Small things at first. A few hundred for car repairs. Money for property taxes. Then it became bigger. When my father’s business started struggling, I paid his commercial lease for six months. When my mother wanted to renovate their kitchen, I covered most of the cost. When Jessica needed money for her elaborate engagement party, I wrote the check without hesitation.
I never kept track of the exact amount, but over the years, I’d given my family close to $200,000, maybe more. It became normal. Expected. They’d call, I’d transfer money. Sometimes they said thank you. Usually they didn’t.
But none of that mattered anymore.
What mattered was that my son was gone, and they couldn’t be bothered to show up because they were too busy planning Jessica’s dream wedding to some guy named Brandon she’d been dating for eight months.
I’d set up a trust fund for Ethan when he was born. I wanted him to have opportunities I never had. To go to any college he wanted. To never worry about money the way I did growing up. I’d put away $50,000 initially and added to it whenever I could. With careful investments and some luck, it had grown to $850,000.
That money was supposed to be his future. His education. His life.
Now, it was just sitting there, and apparently my family had decided it should fund Jessica’s Mediterranean fantasy wedding.
I sat in my car as the sun began to set, watching the funeral home staff turn off the lights and lock the doors. A handful of my colleagues from work had attended the service. My boss had sent flowers. Ethan’s daycare teacher had cried more than my own mother probably would have.
My phone buzzed with a notification. I’d forgotten to block my father. His message was brief.
“Your mother said you’re being dramatic. We’ll talk about this when you calm down. Jessica needs that money for her wedding. Ethan can’t use it now anyway. Don’t be selfish.”
Selfish.
They were calling me selfish for not wanting to hand over my dead son’s inheritance to pay for my sister’s extravagant destination wedding.
Something inside me cracked. Or maybe it had already been broken and I was just now noticing.
I looked down at my phone, at the message from my father, at the blocked numbers from my mother and sister. I thought about all the money I’d given them over the years, all the times I’d said yes when I should have said no.
I started my car and drove home to my empty apartment. Ethan’s toys were still scattered across the living room floor.
I had a decision to make.
The next morning, I called in sick to work and made an appointment with my financial adviser. Gerald was a kind man in his fifties who’d helped me set up Ethan’s trust fund three years ago. He’d sent a beautiful sympathy card after learning about my son’s passing.
“Brienne, I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said as I sat down in his office. His voice was gentle. The kind of tone people use around broken things they’re afraid might shatter completely.
“Thank you,” I managed.
I’d stopped crying two days ago. Now I just felt hollow, like someone had scooped out my insides and left only a shell.
“I need to talk about Ethan’s trust fund.”
Gerald nodded slowly.
“Of course. What would you like to know?”
“Everything. Who has access to it? What happens to it now? Can anyone else claim it?”
He pulled up the documents on his computer.
“The trust is solely in your name as the trustee and beneficiary designate. Since Ethan has passed, you have complete control over the assets. No one else can access or claim these funds without your explicit authorization.”
Relief flooded through me.
“So if someone were to try to convince me to use it for something else, they’d have no legal standing?”
“None whatsoever. This is your money now, Brienne. You can do whatever you wish with it.”
I leaned back in my chair.
“What if I wanted to make sure certain people could never benefit from it? Is there a way to protect it?”
Gerald’s expression shifted slightly. He’d been my adviser long enough to recognize when something was wrong.
“Are you concerned about someone trying to access these funds?”
“My family wants me to use my son’s money to pay for my sister’s wedding,” I said flatly. “They didn’t come to his funeral because they were planning this wedding. They think I’m being selfish for not immediately handing over $850,000 for a destination wedding in Greece.”
Gerald’s face went pale.
“I’m sorry. That’s unconscionable.”
“I need to protect this money,” I continued. “Not just from them, but I need to make sure it’s used for something meaningful. Something that honors Ethan’s memory. Can you help me with that?”
He was quiet for a moment, then nodded.
“Yes. We can restructure the assets, create barriers to access, and establish clear stipulations for how the funds can be used. Give me a few days to draw up some options for you.”
I left his office feeling lighter than I had in weeks. Not happy. I couldn’t imagine ever feeling happy again. But purposeful. For the first time since Ethan died, I had something to focus on besides the crushing weight of grief.
My phone had seventeen missed calls by the time I got home. All from numbers I didn’t recognize. My father must have been calling from different phones, trying to get around the block.
There were also three voicemails. I listened to the first one. My mother’s voice, sugary sweet.
“Honey, I know you’re upset, but we need to talk about this reasonably. Jessica’s wedding is in four months, and Brandon’s family is counting on us to contribute. You know his parents aren’t wealthy like we are. We told them we’d cover the venue and the accommodations for all the guests. That trust fund would be perfect for this. Ethan would have wanted his aunt to be happy.”
The second voicemail was from my sister. Her tone was less sweet.
“Brienne, stop being ridiculous. Mom and Dad said you blocked them. This is crazy. Nobody expects you to get over losing Ethan right away, but life goes on. My wedding is important, too. Call me back.”
The third was from my father.
“I’ve tried to be patient, but this is getting out of hand. That money is just sitting there doing nothing. Your sister needs it for her future. You’re being incredibly selfish, and your mother is sick with worry about how you’re handling this. Call us back immediately so we can discuss this like adults.”
I deleted all three messages and added the new numbers to my block list.
That evening, I finally went into Ethan’s room. I’d been avoiding it since he passed, unable to face the tiny bed with the dinosaur sheets, the bookshelf full of picture books we’d read together every night, the toy chest overflowing with trucks and blocks and stuffed animals.
I sat on the floor and pulled out his favorite stuffed elephant, the one he’d named Peanut. He’d slept with it every single night. I held it against my chest and finally let myself remember.
Ethan had been everything to me. His laugh. The way he’d run to me when I picked him up from daycare. How he’d say, “I love you, Mommy,” in his sweet little voice. The way he’d hold my hand when we crossed the street. His obsession with construction vehicles and his insistence on wearing his rain boots even on sunny days.
My family had barely acknowledged him when he was alive. My parents visited maybe three times a year, usually when they needed something. Jessica had met him twice. They’d sent cards on his birthday with $50 inside and considered their duty done.
But now that he was gone, now that there was money involved, suddenly they cared. Suddenly they wanted to be part of his legacy by erasing it completely and using his future to fund a party.
I looked at Peanut the elephant and made a promise.
“They’re not getting a penny. I’m going to make sure your memory means something.”
My phone buzzed with another call from an unknown number. I didn’t answer.
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