I went to bu:ry my father… and found my husband’s mistress sitting in the front row, wearing my missing Versace like it belonged to her.

It was finally about what I might choose next.

Part 11

On the first anniversary of my father’s funeral, I took Integrity out alone before sunrise.

The marina was half asleep when I arrived. Fog hung low over the water, turning the harbor lights into blurred amber pearls. The docks smelled like wet wood and salt and diesel from a trawler already heading out. My shoes tapped softly on the planks. Somewhere a halyard knocked against a mast in a steady metal rhythm, like a clock with better scenery.

I loved this hour.

No performance in it. No audience. Just the practical work of untying lines, checking cleats, feeling weather settle against your skin before the day starts naming things.

Dad used to say dawn on the water was the one time rich men and honest men could look exactly the same.

I cast off as the sky began to lighten over the horizon.

By the time I cleared the breakwater, the eastern edge of the world had turned from charcoal to blue to that impossible thin peach that lasts maybe two minutes if you’re lucky. The sea rolled under me in long patient swells. Gulls wheeled overhead, white flashes against waking color. I set the sail, found the wind, and let the boat lean.