She squeezed my hands and drew something out of her bouquet, hidden between the white roses. It was a small brass key tied to a faded blue ribbon. I knew that ribbon. It had hung on the hook beside my father’s cabin door every summer of my childhood. My throat closed, because I had not seen it in eleven years. The guests were silent, and my best friend was already wiping his eyes in the front row.

“Turn the tag over,” she whispered. My fingers shook as I flipped the little wooden tag. Burned into it, in my father’s crooked handwriting, were two words: Our Dock. Behind us, a stranger in a gray jacket stepped out from the back pew, holding a thick envelope, and said my name.