To our daughters, I learned so much from your mother. She was my lover and my dearest friend. The summer of 1992 was in full swing, and your mom and I spent every day escaping to different places around the mainland. We were having the time of our lives! By the end of the summer, I didn’t have a penny left—but I was the happiest man alive. Your mom drove a white 1989 Chevrolet Cavalier station wagon. That car smelled like a wet dog—Sam, her dog, was the main passenger before she met me. It would break down every 100 kilometers or so and would run out of gas the moment the warning light came on. And guess who had to push? That’s right—your dad. But we were like peas and carrots—inseparable and as happy as could be. You often say, “Dad, you use all these strange old words no one says anymore!” Well, your mom is responsible for that. I learned what a sea shanty was in that white Cavalier, listening to CBC Radio. There was a program about sailors and fishermen, focusing on how poorly...