"Unfit," they'd said. "Unfit to raise a dog let alone a child." She'd known what was being said behind her back, the whispers and the knowing looks. And worst, most of it was coming from people she called friends, from family, people she'd grown up with, and people with whom she'd eaten Christmas dinners. They were people who knew her past. Some even knew her secrets. And suddenly, they were turning their knowledge of her against her.

"Two men at the same time in the back of the car. That was in grade ten."

"Sat right down on the couch without a stitch of clothing on, beer in one hand, joint in the other, dozens of people around, most of 'em men, just talkin' away as though everything was normal."

"Stealing things from stores ever since she was seven. Amazing that she hasn't ended up in jail by now."

"She was my sister's best friend. Or so she thought, until she found out that she was screwing my sister's boyfriend. And helping my sister with her Math homework at the same time."

"Unfit," said the judge, and that was that. She'd be lucky if she ever saw her daughter again, and even then, it would likely be with someone appointed by the court or, God forbid, her ex, watching every movement, listening to every word, monitoring the situation because, let's face it, the judge had said: "Unfit."

Her line tugged — a muscular, resistant movement, a movement of sudden shock, of realization and running. She gripped the reel tight, and began to reel in the line in spite of the frenzied pull in the water.