MY HUSBAND AND OUR THREE SONS VANISHED DURING THEIR ANNUAL FISHING TRIP—SIX YEARS LATER, MY DAUGHTER FOUND HIS OLD PHONE AND DISCOVERED WHY HIS BROTHER HAD BEEN BEGGING ME TO STOP SEARCHING

We brought him home.

And buried him properly.

At the funeral, all six of our children stood beside me.

Clara.

Willa.

Maisie.

Jory.

Tobin.

Ned.

For the first time in six years, our family was together.

Not complete.

Roscoe was gone.

But the boys were home.

Jory placed a fishing lure on the coffin.

Tobin placed a photograph.

And Ned placed a smooth gray stone.

Then he whispered:

“Bye, Dad.”

I began crying.

Clara took my hand.

And we stood together as the coffin was lowered.

Life after the reunions wasn’t simple.

The boys needed time.

Therapy.

Medical care.

And patience.

Jory struggled with nightmares.

Tobin had difficulty trusting people.

Ned sometimes became frightened when doors were locked.

We learned not to rush them.

Not to demand that they act like the children they’d been before.

They were different now.

Older.

Changed by experiences no child should endure.

But they were still my sons.