I talked to him while I worked. Not the man who handed me envelopes of cash, but the man in the notebooks. I raged at him, I cried for him, and slowly, painfully, I began to forgive him. The anger that had sustained me for so long felt suddenly brittle, replaced by a profound, aching sadness for the time we had lost.

When the boat was finally finished, it was beautiful. The mahogany gleamed under the layers of varnish, the lines smooth and elegant. I named it The Apology.

On a crisp autumn morning, the lake surface smooth as glass, I slid The Apology into the water. It sat perfectly balanced, eager for the current. I climbed in, took the oars, and pushed off the dock.

The silence of the lake enveloped me. I rowed out to the center, the rhythmic splash of the oars the only sound. I stopped rowing and let the boat drift. I looked down at the polished wood beneath my feet, the wood he had chosen, the wood I had shaped.

I didn’t feel hollow anymore. The ghost was gone, replaced by the solid reality of the boat holding me afloat. He hadn’t left me a fortune, or a house, or even a finished vessel. He had left me the pieces. And in putting them together, I had finally found the piece of myself he had taken with him.

I picked up the oars again, feeling the resistance of the water, the weight of the wind against my back, and rowed toward the far shore, ready for whatever came next.