I stared at my bride in her faded flannel pajamas while two hundred guests waited in silence. “Honey, what did you do with fifteen thousand dollars?” I whispered. She squeezed my hands and laughed through her tears. “Do you remember the old fishing boat your dad built, the one your family sold when you were fifteen?” My heart stopped. I had not spoken about that boat in years, and I had never told her what it meant to me.

Before I could answer, the church doors behind her opened again. Her father walked in carrying a small wooden plank, weathered and cracked, with faded blue letters painted across it. I recognized the handwriting at once. The whole room turned to look at me, and my knees started to shake. Then I read the name painted on the plank, and the world went completely silent.