The Mostly True Story of Tanner and Louise

by Colleen Oakley

If there was anything worse in life than a man telling you to calm down when you were upset, she didn’t know what it was.

Standing in waders with the cold river rushing around her legs, the fresh mountain air on her face, Louise had the brief thought that she might quite enjoy being a widow, were it not for the whole Ken-being-dead part.

That was all grief was, really, Louise had determined—remembering.

“He who won’t drink in company is either a thief or a spy.”

“Nothing in life goes according to plan. Nothing. And the sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be.”

People always said life was short, but it wasn’t. Not really. You could cram so many different lives into one. Be so many different people.

She knew kids, daughters especially, took all the anger, frustration, world-weariness out on their mothers because they could. Because mothers would always love them—even at their worst. But even the best mothers had a breaking point.

A fox may grow gray, but never good.

“You’re telling me we’re all in this room together based on a . . . homophone?”

In life, there were two kinds of friends: friends who would wish you well on your journey to battle, and friends who would jump in the trenches with you.

It surprised Louise, and not many people did.