I’d been quietly saving for my niece Phoebe’s college fund for years—birthday money, tax returns, small bonuses. No one asked me to. It was just love.

Phoebe, now 17, is smart and humble. Her mom, my sister Audrey, is… complicated. We’ve had our ups and downs, but I’ve always supported her.

Prom night, Phoebe looked stunning. Audrey told me Phoebe’s absent dad had paid for everything. I wanted to believe it.

Then, during a speech at the school, Phoebe thanked me—for the “private account” that made her magical night possible.

My heart sank.

I hadn’t told Phoebe about the account. Audrey had. And she’d spent $7,000—on dresses, limos, dinner. Money meant for college.

When I confronted her, Audrey defended herself. “It was just prom. She deserved it. You’ll understand when it’s Mae.”

She didn’t apologize. Then days later, she asked for more money.

I said no.

Audrey called me selfish. Our mom begged me to forgive and help. But I stayed quiet.

Until Phoebe showed up at my door, eyes heavy.

“I didn’t know,” she said softly. “I thought it was a gift. I’m so sorry.”

She told me she applied for jobs—to help rebuild the fund. My heart broke.

I hugged her and said, “You don’t have to fix this. But from now on, your mom doesn’t touch that account. Deal?”

“Deal,” she whispered.

I can’t fix Audrey. But I can protect Phoebe’s future.

And that, finally, feels like the right kind of love.