In 2012, my husband took our 14-year-old son on what he called a three-day fishing trip. They sent postcards, cheerful and reassuring. Life moved on, and the trip became just another happy memory.
Recently, I found those postcards and mentioned how proud his dad had been of that weekend.
My son paused, then said gently, “Mom… we didn’t go fishing.”
I wasn’t alarmed—just curious. He explained that instead of fishing, they spent the three days hiking, navigating trails, and talking. The postcards weren’t lies, he said—they were reassurance. His dad didn’t want me to worry while they explored unfamiliar terrain.
As my son spoke, a different picture emerged. Sunrise on a ridge. Learning to read a compass. Sitting quietly by a stream, talking about responsibility, dreams, and growing up. My husband, never great at expressing himself, had found a way to teach through shared silence and presence.
Then my son said something I’ll never forget:
“Dad wanted to show me how to find my way… even if he wasn’t around someday.”
My husband has since passed, and hearing this now carried new weight. That trip wasn’t about fishing. It was a quiet rite of passage—a message wrapped in memory.
That night, I put the postcards back in the drawer. Not as reminders of a half-true story, but as symbols of a deeper honesty.
Sometimes love doesn’t announce itself.
Sometimes it teaches gently—and lasts forever.
