I thought of Becca too, though less often now. She’d sent one more note months after the dress, longer this time, saying she was in therapy and had learned some things about greed disguised as romance. I did not answer, but I no longer needed to hate her. She had been selfish, yes. Cruel, yes. But also foolish enough to think a man who lied to his wife would tell the truth to his mistress. That punishment wrote itself.
Mostly, though, I thought of Dad.
Of his hands on a line, showing me where to pull. Of the way he always smelled faintly of cedar and sea air and expensive pens. Of the look in his eyes when he realized I was hurting and decided, even dying, that there was still something he could do about it.
People talk about inheritance like it’s money.
They are wrong.
The real inheritance is discernment. Backbone. A sense of what you are and are not required to tolerate. A father’s voice in your head when a man lies to your face. A place to land. A boat to take beyond the harbor. Enough love, stored in letters and habits and memory, to rebuild a life without begging the past to return in a kinder shape.
The wind freshened. Integrity leaned, eager and sure.