I’m Scott, a single father. Six months ago, I buried my 15-year-old son, Ben.
His funeral was packed. People came, cried, hugged me, and made promises to stay close.
But as time moved on, the calls stopped. The visits faded. Everyone vanished—except Daniel.
Daniel was Ben’s best friend. He was just 16, lanky and soft-spoken, but during Ben’s three-year battle with a heart condition, Daniel was the one who showed up.
“Mr. Scott,” he once said, holding up a notebook, “I drew new pages for Ben. Thought he’d like these.”
Even when the machines buzzed louder than our hopes, he came. My relatives stopped showing up, but Daniel never missed a day.
One night, Ben looked at me, weak and pale. “Dad,” he whispered, “can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” I said, brushing his hair back.
“If I don’t make it… Give Daniel my college fund. He deserves it more than I.”
“Don’t talk like that,” I said, trying not to break. “You’ll get better. You’ll use that money yourself.”
“No, Dad. Promise me.”
I paused, heart heavy. “I promise.”
A few weeks later, Ben passed peacefully.
I thought Daniel would disappear like everyone else. But the Tuesday after the funeral, he knocked on my door.
“I just wanted to see how you’re doing, Mr. Scott.”
He looked worn out—grief too heavy for someone so young. I invited him in. He handed me a small wooden box he’d made.
“I was going to give this to Ben… I want you to have it.”
Inside were mementos: Ben’s hospital bracelet, a photo of the two boys laughing, and a handwritten note that read: “Thanks for being the best friend ever.”
From then on, every Tuesday, Daniel came by. We’d sit in my kitchen, remembering Ben. We laughed. We cried. Sometimes, we just sat in silence.
“Tell me about the time you two got detention,” I asked him once.
Daniel grinned. “Ben wanted to surprise you with flowers for your birthday, so we snuck out during lunch. Got caught crawling back through the gym window.”
“He never told me that part.”
“He said it would ruin the surprise.”
One day, Daniel mentioned working part-time at the hardware store.
“College might not happen,” he said, stirring his coffee. “Mom’s struggling since Dad left. I’ve got to help at home.”
My heart broke for him.
“What would you study?”
His eyes lit up. “Engineering. Or art. Ben always said I’d be good at both.”
“He was right,” I said quietly.
That night, I remembered my promise to Ben. And I decided it was time to fulfill it.
A week later, I joined my family for dinner at my sister Rebecca’s house. Everything seemed normal until she asked, “Scott, what are you doing with Ben’s college fund?”
he room fell silent.
I set down my fork. “I’m giving it to Daniel.”
Rebecca’s jaw dropped. “Who?”
“Ben’s best friend.”
“That boy from the hospital?” Mom asked. “Sweetheart, that money should stay in the family.”
“It’s $25,000,” Uncle Will added. “Are you sure you’re thinking straight?”
“I’ve never been more certain.”
Rebecca scoffed. “My son’s starting college too. He’s your nephew—your blood.”
I looked around the table. These were the same people who hadn’t called, hadn’t visited, hadn’t cared.
“Blood didn’t show up when I needed it most,” I said.
Dad shifted uncomfortably. “We had our struggles.”
“Like what? You couldn’t visit your dying grandson?”
“I don’t handle hospitals well,” he muttered.
“Neither do I. But I showed up anyway.”
“Scott, that’s not fair,” Mom whispered.
“And where were you, Rebecca? Too busy with work?”
