I didn’t step foot in our beach house for 26 years.
People think it’s about money. They hear “beach house” and picture weekend wine, sunburns, and laughing couples. They don’t picture the night that snapped our marriage clean in half.
It was late summer of 1999, the kind of night where the ocean doesn’t sound pretty. It sounds angry. The wind kept slapping the windows, hard enough to rattle the glass.
My wife had begged me to sell the place after that night. She didn’t bargain.
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