I carefully returned everything to its place.
Then sat on the edge of our bed.
For the first time, I allowed myself to consider the possibility I’d been avoiding.
Maybe there was another woman.
Maybe the annual fishing trips weren’t quite what they seemed.
Maybe the man I’d trusted for twenty-six years had a second life I knew nothing about.
That afternoon, our daughter called.
Sophie was studying nursing at a state university about two hours away.
She was in her second year and usually phoned every Monday after her anatomy class.
“Hey, Mom! Dad get back from fishing?”
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“Did Uncle Ray fall out of the boat?”
“Apparently twice.”
She laughed.
“Sounds about right. Tell Dad he owes me fish pictures.”
I frowned.
“He didn’t send you any?”
“Nope. Not one.”
That was unusual.
For years, Sophie had collected her father’s ridiculous fishing photographs in an album she’d named Dad’s Dumb Fish.
