Every summer, Roscoe took the boys fishing.
It was their tradition.
Something he’d started when Jory was five.
For eleven years, they spent one weekend at the lake.
Just the four of them.
They packed sandwiches.
Fishing rods.
Sleeping bags.
And enough snacks to feed a small army.
Roscoe always returned with ridiculous stories.
Jory claimed he’d caught enormous fish.
Tobin insisted his father cheated at cards.
And Ned usually came home with a collection of unusual stones.
I loved those weekends.
Not because the house was quieter.
But because I loved seeing my husband create memories with our sons.
I never imagined one of those trips would destroy our family.
The last Saturday began like every other fishing weekend.
Roscoe woke before sunrise.
He made coffee.
Checked the weather.
And inspected the truck.
I stood in the kitchen preparing sandwiches.
Jory came downstairs carrying two fishing rods.
“Dad, I get the front seat this year.”
