It was a quiet Saturday morning, and I was curled up on the couch with

a steaming cup of coffee, flipping through a new mystery novel.

The house was still, save for the occasional creak of the wooden floorboards.

Tom, my husband of 12 years, was out on the lake, doing what he loved most—fishing.

Tom had a way of finding adventure in the mundane. He could spend hours

casting his line, whether or not he caught anything. For him, it wasn’t about

the fish; it was about the peace of the water and the thrill of the unknown.

I, on the other hand, found my adventures in books and the occasional crossword puzzle.

Opposites attract, I guess.

By the time Tom burst through the door, I’d made it halfway through my novel.

He was out of breath, his face lit up with excitement as if he’d discovered a long-lost treasure.

“Katie!” he called, holding something behind his back. “You’re not going to believe what I found!”

“What now?” I asked, setting my book aside. Over the years, I’d learned to temper

my expectations whenever Tom came home with “big news.”

It usually involved a fish that got away or a quirky rock he’d pulled from the lakebed.