I noticed the empty space beside our garage on a Tuesday evening. For nineteen years, Frank’s old green fishing boat had sat there so faithfully that I barely noticed it anymore. Now only a faded rectangle of yellow grass remained. Frank had bought that fourteen-foot Princecraft when our son Derek was twelve. Its battered aluminum hull carried nineteen years of memories, including the enormous dent Frank put in the bow one Canada Day and proudly refused to repair.

I called Derek immediately. After a long silence, he admitted he had sold the boat for only $450. The motor alone was worth far more, but that wasn’t what hurt. Frank had died only three weeks earlier. Two years before his death, he had legally transferred the boat to Derek, so my son had every right to sell it. Still, something felt terribly wrong. The next morning, I drove into town and visited Ron’s bait shop. The moment he saw me, he knew exactly why I had come. Click continue reading below