“Thank you,” I whispered. “He’s not even born yet… and you already believe in him.”
Jay smiled. “Of course. He’s my grandson.”
Over the years, Martin and I slowly added to that fund. Birthday gifts, work bonuses, refunds—we tucked away what we could. It became a ritual. Not just financial planning, but a way to water the seed of his dreams.
Robert had big dreams. He wanted to be an astrophysicist. Said he’d build a rocket to Pluto. I laughed, but he was so serious—those little fingers turning book pages, his voice low and sure.
But life doesn’t give you a warning before it shatters you.
After Robert passed, we never touched the account. It sat there, sacred and silent. I couldn’t bear to log in, couldn’t see the number that once symbolized a future now gone. It became something we didn’t mention—but we also couldn’t erase it.
Two years ago, we started trying again. I missed feeling like a mom. I thought maybe, just maybe, another child could bring back some light.
“You think it’s time?” I asked Martin one night, barely above a whisper.
“Only if you’re ready,” he said instantly.
I wasn’t. But I nodded anyway.
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