I picked it up and held it in my palm.
It was still here. He hadn’t worn it. He hadn’t taken it to the lake.
So what had he been wearing?
I stood there for a long time with the ring in my hand. Then I put it back, closed the box, closed the drawer, and sat down on the edge of our bed.
I felt sick.
My daughter, Sophie, called that afternoon. She was a sophomore at the state university, two hours away, studying nursing. She called every Monday on her way from her anatomy lab.
“Hey, Mom. Did Dad get back okay?”
“He did.”
“Did Ray fall out of the boat?”
“Twice, apparently.”
She laughed. “Classic. Tell Dad I said hi. And tell him to send me pictures of the fish. He always sends me fish pictures.”
“He didn’t this year?”
“Nope. Not one. I texted him Saturday, and he didn’t answer until Sunday morning. And then all he said was ‘Love you, kiddo.’” She paused. “Is he okay? He seemed weird.”
