“It’s only for the closest family,” my dad told me as eighty guests boarded my $1.2 million yacht for my brother’s engagement party, while he laughed and thanked me for the free venue. I didn’t argue or beg to be included. I waited until they cleared the harbor, then sent the captain six words—and minutes later, the yacht began turning back toward shore.

“It felt too operational in there.”

I stared at him.

“Too operational?”

He shrugged.

“You know what I mean. It looked like a workboat.”

It was the most honest thing he had said.

My presence reminded people that Second Wind had an owner.

And the owner was not him.

Dad’s sixty-third birthday finally forced me to see how far they were willing to take it.

I had spent months restoring Mom’s old brass compass. It had been stored in a box since she died.

I cleaned it, repaired the housing, and had the glass replaced.

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I planned to give it to Dad aboard Second Wind.

Nobody had mentioned the exact party details to me, but I assumed that was because Dad expected me to know I was welcome.

I drove to the marina carrying the wrapped compass and a small cake from the bakery he had taken Weston and me to when we were children.