When my daughter died at 16, her father and I chose to leave her college fund of $25,000 to charity. My 30-year-old stepdaughter Amber, who never liked or appreciated me, showed up out of the blue:
“So, what are you going to do with the cash?”
I informed her what the gift was. She chuckled and added, “You’re giving it away?” SO STUPID! You can give it to me. “Now I’m your daughter, right?”
My partner then agreed with her, saying, “Amber is right.” She can use that money for her house; charity can wait.
I couldn’t say anything, so I just looked at them and said, “Okay.” But only if you…
“…volunteer for the charity for a whole month all by yourself.” Every Saturday. Don’t skip.
Amber blinked as if I had hit her. “Are you kidding?”
I wasn’t. I could tell my husband wanted to fight because his mouth opened, but I stopped him. “Do you want that cash?” First, show me that you care about more than just yourselves.
She laughed. “That’s insane.” I work.
“I did too when I made that fund.” “You want her money, you have to work for it,” I told her. I worked two shifts while taking care of her.
I thought that would be the end of it. I really did. But Amber said yes, which surprised me. She complained, rolled her eyes, and said yes.
The group was a local food bank that also ran a program on Saturdays to teach teens and young adults new skills. I had planned to give the cheque without making a big issue out of it. But I contacted ahead and asked if they would take two people who didn’t want to do it.
With a smile in her voice, Maribel, the director, said sure. “Let’s see what your people can do.”
Amber wore a hoodie with earbuds in it to work the first week and hardly said hello. She spent the morning dragging her feet and complaining like a teenager who had to clean her room.
I observed her looking at her phone behind the aisle with the canned goods. I didn’t say anything; I just scribbled down her hours and left.
She felt better in the second week. No earbuds this time. She still didn’t speak much, but I observed her help a kid obtain a box of cereal without being asked. She didn’t see me see.
My husband was a different story. He didn’t go to week two at all since his back hurt. I didn’t push. I knew what he cared about the most.
By the third week, everything had shifted.
A mother named Dalia arrived with her twin boys every Saturday. Because both of them had autism, she was always exhausted and courteous. That week, one of the boys lost it in the frozen food section. Amber was nearby. She didn’t pull away like she had the week before. Instead, she bent down and softly started giving the boy snack packs while muttering something I couldn’t hear.
He got better.
Later, Dalia came over with tears in her eyes and said thank you. Amber just nodded and said, “He likes blueberries.”
Amber was quiet in the car after that. Not mad, just peaceful. For the first time that week, she didn’t inquire when she’d get the money.
My husband came back on week four, beaming and laughing with the staff like he was the Mayor of Food Pantry Town. But he had to leave halfway through to answer a “urgent call.” I spotted him in the car eating a burrito.
Amber didn’t say a thing while she was working.
By the fifth week, she was getting there early. She had brought her own granola bars to give away. She made the receptionist laugh. She even said hello to me.
I wanted to believe it meant something. But I had been around long enough to know that people will do anything for money.
Then it was the sixth week. The turn.
A adolescent girl was in the mentorship program. Salima was her name. Seventeen, incredibly smart, and no filter. I was sad to see her since she looked so much like my daughter.
Salima and Amber had to work together to pack school supplies that week. I heard pieces of conversation while I was putting more diapers on the shelves.
“Wait, your stepmom gave you money for college?” Salima said. “That’s cool.” Mine won’t even help with gas money.
Amber didn’t know. “Yeah, okay.” It wasn’t only her idea.
Salima raised an eyebrow. “Did you want it?”
Amber nodded and continued, “I didn’t think it would feel like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like I took something from a ghost.”
I ducked into the next aisle and put my palm over my mouth.
That night, Amber got in touch with me. First time in a long time.
“Hey… Do you think we could keep helping after the eight weeks?
I didn’t say anything at first. Then: “Sure,” if that’s what you want.
She coughed. “And… I don’t want the money anymore. I talked to Dad. You may give it away like you said you would.
I sat down in shock. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I mean, don’t get me wrong; I could use it. But I don’t know about some of those kids. They need it more.
That conversation broke something between us. It didn’t fix everything, but it did change the mood. She started texting me random updates. Funny things that happen at work. Cooking instructions. Cat memes.
I never told her this, but the first time she wrote me a “Hey, hope you’re okay” for no reason, I cried.
Then, around two months later, Maribel from the charity called.
“We got your daughter’s gift,” she remarked. “Thanks again.” But I wanted to know whether it would be acceptable with you if we named the new youth scholarship after her.
I could barely speak. “Of course.” Yes. “Please.”
We made plans for a small ceremony. Not a lot of people, just a few teens and staff. Amber came. She handed her flowers.
Maribel presented me the framed certificate with my daughter’s name on it: The Mireille Hope Scholarship Fund.
For the first time, Amber wrapped her arm around my shoulder. “She’d be proud of you,” she remarked in a quiet voice.
My partner said we had given up too much that night.
“You just lost your relationship with your stepdaughter and $25,000.”
I shook my head. “Not at all. I gave my daughter’s memories a cause to stay alive. And I got something with Amber that I never thought I’d get.
He didn’t say anything back. I just went outside to watch TV.
Amber came over alone a week later with a little, old shoebox.
“I was looking through Dad’s things,” she said. “I found this. I think it’s yours.
There were letters I had already written to Mireille within. Cards. I even found some baby socks that I thought I had lost while moving.
Amber looked at me like she didn’t know what she had just done.
I said, “Thanks.” “These… I had no idea he had them.
She nodded. “I don’t think he knew how to move on.”
I held her hand. She gave it to me.
She got a new job three months later. She told me first, not her dad.
She rolled her eyes when I delivered cupcakes, but I could see her smile.
Then, something strange happened in October of last year. My husband got a job as a consultant in a different state. A lot of cash. He wanted me to come. He told me to start afresh. He wanted me to start over, away from anything that reminded me of my past.
Amber, on the other hand, didn’t want to leave. She had made this location her home. She had her friends, her apartment, and the things she did every day at the food bank. Her life.
And to my surprise, I didn’t want to leave either.
We had a fight about it. He told me I picked “someone else’s kid” over him.
I told them, “She’s our child now.” No matter what you believe.
He left three weeks later.
I stayed.
Amber helped me relocate into a smaller space. There was just enough room for a garden and a guest room where she could sleep when she stayed late.
The first night I was in my new place, I opened the shoebox again.
I sat on the floor and read all the letters I had sent to my daughter again. After that, I wrote another one.
This time, I told her about Amber. About the kids who use the food bank. About the money.
I ended with, “Your heart is still here, baby.” Just beating up a new individual.
Amber brought coffee the next morning and said, “I was thinking.” We could give out the scholarship every year. Get more next year. What do you think?
I smiled at her. She was the woman who asked a dead girl for money as if it were hers.
“I think that’s a great idea.”
You can be surprised by people sometimes.
At first, love could look like it’s too loud, too late, or too selfish.
But if you give it a chance, it could become true. Something that grief can’t take away.
If you’re still grieving or wondering if you can ever make things right, I’m here to assure you that you can.
But not in the way you imagine.