Ronan and I had been married for thirteen years, raising three daughters who filled our home with laughter and noise. When his younger brother, Vaughn, invited him fishing at a cabin near Lake Mercer, I encouraged Ronan to go. Before leaving, our daughters gave him little gifts for luck, including June’s plastic horse, which he tucked into his jacket pocket. But before he walked outside, Ronan quietly told me something that stayed with me. “When I get home, we need to talk about something Vaughn asked me to do.” I asked what he meant, but Ronan only shook his head and promised we would talk later.

Two days later, Vaughn returned without him. He claimed Ronan had gone fishing before sunrise when a violent storm suddenly arrived. His boat was eventually found downstream, but Ronan was nowhere to be found. Search teams searched the lake, shoreline, and surrounding woods for days. Nothing was recovered. Nearly a year passed, and Ronan was eventually declared dead. I never accepted the explanation. Then, one afternoon, my daughter Brenna returned from Vaughn’s house carrying a backpack. She grabbed my hand, opened it, and whispered, “Mom, look what was in the pocket.”