My wife and I once owned a beach house, but we moved to the city. I hadn’t been back for 26 years; she went four times a year. After she passed away, my children said, “Sell that useless place!” I went once before selling—and when I opened the rusted gate, I froze at what was living there.

I hadn’t set foot inside our beach house for 26 years—not since Julie and I moved to the city.
She continued returning four times a year, faithfully, almost like a ritual. I always found reasons not to go with her: work, golf, doctor visits, simple laziness. Back then, I had no idea how deeply that decision would come back to haunt me.

Six months after Julie passed away, my children—Marcus and Diana—began circling me like vultures.
“Dad, sell that useless place,” Marcus repeated nearly every week. “It’s draining your finances.”
Diana added, “You never even go there. Why keep it?”