We didn’t fix everything that day. The bridge between us was heavily burned, and it would take years of careful, deliberate work to rebuild a relationship based on mutual respect rather than obligation. But as we sat there in the fading light, listening to the eternal, rhythmic crashing of the Atlantic waves, I knew that the foundation was finally solid.

The beach house was no longer a monument to my past, nor a waiting room for someone else’s future. It was a fortress of the present. And as I watched a flock of gulls dive over the cresting waves, surrounded by the beautiful, messy, vibrant life I had chosen to cultivate, I knew Henry would have loved the sound of the screen door slamming shut.