I went to the lake every day.
I stood beside the water.
Called my sons’ names.
And begged God to bring them home.
The authorities investigated the damaged boat.
Weather conditions.
Possible mechanical problems.
And the circumstances surrounding the disappearance.
Eventually, they concluded that a boating accident was the most likely explanation.
The lake was deep.
The currents were unpredictable.
And the damaged boat suggested a serious incident.
But no bodies were recovered.
Not one.
The official conclusion remained uncertain.
And that uncertainty became the cruelest part of my grief.
Roscoe’s younger brother, Garrison, became a constant presence after the disappearance.
He was forty-one at the time.
A quiet man who worked in equipment sales.
He helped organize the search.
Spoke to reporters.
And handled some of the paperwork.
At first, I was grateful.
He seemed devastated.
He cried at the memorial service.
Held my hand.
And promised to help the girls.
