Paige asked me for fifty thousand dollars between the salad and the main course. She had prepared a presentation on her tablet showing a ten-day cruise, a private dining room, flowers flown to every port, and a photographer for the renewal of her vows with my son Colin. Their tenth anniversary was nine months away. I admired the careful budget before telling her no. The money she wanted was nearly the full amount Owen and I had set aside for the shipyard apprenticeship fund before he died.
Colin stared at his plate. Paige said an anniversary happened once, while scholarships came every year. I explained that the fund was not spare cash; six apprentices had already been promised placements. Paige reminded me that I could afford both because Owen's employee shares had increased in value. I owned seven percent of North Channel Voyages, the small line that grew from the shipyard where we both worked. Those shares paid dividends, but they did not turn company money into my family wallet. Paige said I was hiding behind principles because I had never approved of her.
I told her I approved of vows that fit the lives people actually lived. Colin asked whether I could lend them the money instead. I offered to pay for a modest family dinner after the trip they could afford. Paige closed the presentation and said they would manage without me. On the drive home, I replayed my refusal, testing it for cruelty. In my desk, Owen's old engineering notebook waited beneath the apprenticeship files. He had written fragments of a work song in the margins whenever meetings ran long. I read one familiar line about keeping the hull true and wondered why doing the honest thing could still feel like letting water in. I slept badly.