When my daughter died at 16, her father and I chose to leave her $25,000 college fund to charity. Amber, my 30-year-old stepdaughter who never liked me or accepted me, showed up out of the blue:
“So… what are you going to do with the cash?”
I informed her what the present was. “You’re giving it away?!” she laughed. So stupid! You can give it to me. “Am I your daughter now?”
Then my hubby agreed with her by saying, “Amber is right.” She might use that money to pay for her house; charity can wait.
I couldn’t say anything, so I just looked at them and said, “Okay.” But only if you…
“…work for the charity as a volunteer for a whole month by yourself.” Every Saturday. “Don’t skip.”
Amber blinked like I had hit her. “You’re joking.”
I wasn’t. I could tell my husband wanted to fight because he opened his mouth, but I stopped him. “Do you want that cash?” First, show me that you care about more than just yourself.
She laughed. “That’s nuts.” I have a job.
“I did the same thing when I made that fund. I worked two shifts and took care of a teenager. “You want her money, you have to work for it.”
I thought that would be the end of it. I really did. But to my astonishment, Amber said yes. She answered yes, but she grumbled and rolled her eyes.
The group was a local food bank that also ran a program on Saturdays to teach kids new things. I had already planned to give the check without making a big issue out of it. But I called ahead and asked if they would take two volunteers who didn’t want to do it.
Maribel, the director, said yes with a smile in her voice. “Let’s see what your people are really like.”
The first week Amber came to work wearing a hoodie and earbuds and barely 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 went home.
She was in a better mood the second week. No earbuds this time. She still didn’t say much, but I observed her help a kid obtain a box of cereal without being told to. She didn’t see me see.
My husband was a different story. He didn’t go to week two at all since he said his back hurt. I didn’t push. I knew what meant the most to him.
By the third week, things were different.
Dalia arrived with her twin boys every Saturday. She was always nice and tired because both of them had autism. That week, one of the boys had a fit in the frozen food section. Amber was not far away. She didn’t back off as she did last week. Instead, she bent down and softly gave the boy snack packs, muttering something I couldn’t hear.
He got better.
Dalia came over later with tears in her eyes and thanked her. Amber only nodded and went on, “He likes blueberries.”
Amber didn’t say anything in the car afterward. Not mad, just peaceful. She didn’t ask when she would get the money for the first time that week.
On the fourth week, my husband came back and acted like the Mayor of Food Pantry Town, joking and smiling with the staff. But he departed in the middle because he had to take a “important call.” I spotted him eating a burrito in his car.
Amber didn’t say a word the whole time she was working.
She was arriving there early by the fifth week. She had brought granola bars to give away by herself. She told the receptionist a funny story. 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.
That was the sixth week. The change.
There was a teenage girl in the mentorship program. Salima was her name. Seventeen years old, highly smart, and no filter. It made me sad to see her since she looked so much like my daughter.
Amber and Salima had to work together to pack school supply packs that week. I heard pieces of chatter while I was putting more diapers on the shelves.
“Wait, your stepmother gave you money for school?” Salima said. “That’s cool. Mine won’t even help with gas money.
Amber wasn’t sure. “Yes, well. It wasn’t just her thought.
Salima raised one eyebrow. “You wanted it, didn’t you?”
Amber nodded and then remarked, “I didn’t think it would feel like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like I stole from a ghost.”
I ducked into the next aisle and covered my mouth with my palm.
That night Amber got in touch with me. For the first time in a long time.
“Hey… Do you think we could keep helping after the first eight weeks?
I didn’t say anything at first. Then: “Sure,” if you want to.
She cleared her throat. “And… I don’t want the money anymore.” I talked to Dad. You can give it out like you planned.
I was so shocked that I sat down. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” I don’t mean to sound rude, but I could use it. But some of those kids… I don’t know. They need it more.
That talk broke something between us. It didn’t fix everything, but it did change the mood. She started texting me random updates. Things that make you laugh at work. How to cook. Funny pictures of cats.
I never told her this, but the first time she wrote me a “Hey, hope you’re okay” for no reason, I cried.
About 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 scholarship for young people after her.
I could barely talk. “Of course.” Yes. “Please.”
We made plans for a small ceremony. There weren’t a lot of people there, just a few workers and teens. Amber came. She handed her flowers.
Maribel gave me the framed diploma with my daughter’s name on it. It was for the Mireille Hope Scholarship Fund.
Amber wrapped her arm around my shoulder for the first time. She whispered softly, “She’d be proud of you.”
My spouse said we had given up too much that night.
“You just lost twenty-five thousand dollars and your relationship with your stepdaughter.”
I shook my head. “No. I gave my daughter a cause to remember. And I got something from Amber that I never thought I would get.
He didn’t say anything. I walked outside to watch TV.
Amber came around a week later by herself with a small, old shoebox.
She said, “I was looking through Dad’s things.” “I found this.” I think it’s yours.
There were letters I had written to Mireille before this one. Cards. I even found some baby socks that I thought I had lost during the move.
Amber was gazing at me like she didn’t realize what she had just done.
I said, “Thank you.” “These… I didn’t even know he had them.
She agreed. “I don’t think he knew how to let go.”
I grabbed her hand. She gave it to me.
After three months, she got a new job. She didn’t tell her dad; she told me first.
She rolled her eyes when I brought cupcakes, but I could see that she was happy.
Then, something strange happened in October. My husband got a job as a consultant in a different state. A lot of money. He wanted me to be there. He told me to begin again. He wanted me to start over, away from all the things that reminded me of my past.
Amber, on the other hand, didn’t want to go. This was where she lived. She had her pals, her apartment, and her job at the food bank. Her existence.
And I couldn’t believe it, but I didn’t want to leave either.
We argued about it. He said I picked “someone else’s kid” over him.
I said, “Now she’s our child.” No matter what you think.
He left three weeks later.
I stayed.
Amber helped me move to a smaller place. There was just enough space for a garden and a guest room where she could sleep when she stayed late.
I opened the shoebox again on the first night I spent in my new home.
I sat on the floor and read all the letters I had sent to my daughter. I wrote one more after that.
This time I informed her about Amber. About the kids who go to the food bank. About the grant.
I ended with, “Baby, your heart is still here.” Just beating through a new person.
Amber brought coffee the next morning and said, “I was thinking.” We may give the scholarship out every year. Get more next year. What do you think?
I smiled back at her. She was the woman who requested for money from a dead girl as if it were hers.
“I think that’s a great idea.”
Sometimes people can surprise you.
Love can come in the wrong clothes at first, like being too loud, too late, or too selfish.
But if you give it a chance, it can become real. Something that grief can’t take away.
If you’re still in pain or wondering if things will ever get better, I’m here to tell you that they will.
But maybe not in the way you imagine.
