Three years ago, the ocean stole my husband.  

Anthony left at dawn, promising it was just a quick trip—in and out before the storm. The sky bled red, that ominous hue old sailors cursed, but he only kissed my forehead, flashed that reckless grin, and said, *"Bad weather never touches me."* That kiss was the last thing he ever gave me. 

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They found his boat three days later—battered, adrift, empty. No body. No note. No closure. Just splintered wood and the wreckage of the future we’d planned. I grieved like a woman hollowed out.  

Then I lost the baby.  

Nights became endless; daylight felt like a betrayal. The sea, once our livelihood, became my tormentor—its waves hissing, *You’ll never have him back.*  

For years, I couldn’t bear to look at the water.  

Then, one morning, something in me cracked. I booked a trip to a quiet coastal town, determined to face the ocean and walk away whole. The day was unnervingly calm—pale sky, glassy waves. I stood ankle-deep in the surf when I saw him.  

At first, I thought grief had finally broken me.  

There, twenty feet away, was a man with Anthony’s broad shoulders, Anthony’s easy stride, Anthony’s dimple as he laughed, swinging a little girl onto his hip. A woman held his other hand. My lungs seized. *"Anthony?"*  

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He turned.  

And for one dizzying second, it *was* him—alive. But his eyes held nothing. *"Sorry,"* he said, frowning. *"You’ve mistaken me for someone else. My name’s Drake."* The woman tugged him closer, her grip possessive. They walked away, leaving me trembling in the foam.  

That night, Kaitlyn knocked on my hotel door.  

She stood stiffly, like a soldier bracing for war. She told me how "Drake" had washed ashore three years ago—half-dead, no memory. How she’d nursed him. How he’d become a father to her daughter. Her voice was steel, but her hands shook. *She knew.*  

The next day, I brought proof: our wedding album, photos of us laughing in our kitchen, the ultrasound of the child we’d never meet.  

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He stared at them like they were artifacts from another life. His thumb brushed my face in one picture, then the swell of my pregnant belly. But when he looked up, his gaze was a stranger’s. *"I don’t remember,"* he whispered. Behind him, the little girl shrieked with laughter as Kaitlyn spun her in circles.  

The sound was a knife.  

Because it wasn’t just a life—it was a *good* one.  

I took a breath. *"The man I loved died three years ago,"* I said. *"You belong here now."*  

And just like that, I let him go.  

Outside, the tide rolled out, gentle as a sigh. For the first time in years, the weight in my chest didn’t drag me under.  

The sea had taken. The sea had kept.  

Now, finally, it was my turn to walk away.