“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.

Mom’s photograph returned to the owner’s cabin.

My logbook went back to its shelf.

The Cole Legacy banner disappeared.

So did the illusion that giving enough would eventually earn me a permanent place in my own family.

I did not sell the yacht immediately.

I needed time aboard her without Weston or Dad attached to every surface.

Sometimes Luis came with me.

Sometimes Tessa joined me.

Sometimes Aunt Marlene sat on the aft deck with coffee while I worked.

And sometimes I went out with only the crew required for safe operation and spent hours doing the small tasks that had first made me love boats.

I polished brass.

I replaced a stubborn sensor.

I repaired a cabinet latch Weston had ignored.

I checked lines and hardware.

At the end of each trip, I tied Second Wind securely in her berth myself.

None of it was glamorous.

That was why I liked it.