“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.

The one who would be fine.

Before Mom became sick, the three of us had spent weekends around Charleston’s waterways. We kept a small fishing boat near Shem Creek. Weston liked speed. He loved opening the throttle when Dad wasn’t looking and laughing when the bow lifted.

I loved everything else.

I liked checking the fuel line before we left. I liked studying tide tables. I liked washing salt from the deck afterward and coiling rope so cleanly that it would run through my hands without catching.

Mom taught us both how to handle the boat, but she seemed to recognize something in me that nobody else did.

Patience.

One afternoon, she stood behind me at the dock and guided my hands through a knot.

“A family boat should stay in the family,” she said, “but only if the family takes care of it.”

For years, I remembered the first half.