Some days are difficult.
Some nights are filled with memories we’d rather forget.
But our house is no longer silent.
There are shoes in the hallway again.
Arguments about food.
Music from upstairs.
And laughter drifting through the kitchen.
The sounds I once thought I’d never hear again.
Last summer, the boys asked me something unexpected.
“Mom,” Jory said, “we want to go fishing.”
I froze.
He saw my expression.
“We don’t have to.”
Tobin nodded.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to.”
Ned looked down.
I stared at them.
Then took a breath.
“Where?”
Jory smiled gently.
“A different lake.”
I swallowed.
He continued.
“Somewhere peaceful.”
I looked at my sons.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
We went on a Saturday morning.
All six children.
And me.
We packed sandwiches.
Fishing rods.
And enough snacks to feed a small army.
At the lake, Jory helped Ned prepare his line.
Tobin complained about the mosquitoes.
