I used to think of the beach house as a chapter that had simply closed, a place that belonged to a younger version of myself and to a marriage that had slowly migrated inland along with our lives. Julie and I bought it when our hair was still dark and our arguments were about paint colors and curtains, not medication schedules and aching joints. When we moved to the city, it felt practical, even responsible. The beach was three hours away, and work, routines, and comfort pulled us in another direction. Julie, however, never truly left that place behind.

Four times a year, without fail, she packed her soft canvas bag, kissed me on the cheek, and drove back to Palmetto Cove as if answering a quiet call only she could hear. I always had reasons not to go—meetings, golf games, minor ailments that suddenly felt major. I told myself there would be time later, that the house would always be there, that Julie understood. When she died, six months before I returned, those justifications collapsed into something heavier than regret. Our children, Marcus and Diana, descended quickly after the funeral, practical voices sharpened by impatience.

They spoke of maintenance costs, property taxes, and market timing, calling the house “useless” with a cruelty that startled me. To them, it was a line item, a dormant asset waiting to be converted into inheritance. To me, it was Julie’s refuge, and though I hadn’t been there in decades, I felt something in my chest resist the idea of selling it without seeing it one last time.