STT. Family Shares Update as Will Completes His Alabama Hunting Tags and Plans Out-of-State Hunts
This kid had a way of filling spaces no one ever realized were empty.
Not just the walls, though those were filling up fast too.
The mounts lined up like quiet witnesses to time passing—each one carrying a memory, a laugh, a long day under open sky.
Someone joked that they were going to need more wall space soon.
It wasn’t really a joke.
It was a recognition.
Because Will lived his life in a way that left marks—tangible ones, emotional ones, the kind that stayed long after the moment had passed.
For anyone wondering, Will was still living his best life.
Not the kind of “best life” that came with filters or hashtags.
But the kind that smelled like dirt and morning air and patience.
The kind that came from sitting still for hours, waiting, watching, listening.
The kind that didn’t rush tomorrow.
That weekend had unfolded in fragments, like most weekends did in their household.
Charlie had spent the entire weekend with Frehley Wilson.
That meant laughter, chaos, muddy shoes by the door, and stories told too fast to keep up with.
Meanwhile, their mother was still trying to mend from a seventy-two-hour stomach bug that refused to loosen its grip.
It clung stubbornly, like it had something to prove.
She moved slowly through the house, her energy borrowed, her patience thinner than usual.
The walls felt closer on days like that.
Then Jason texted.
Short message.
No emojis.
Just the kind of message that carried weight without decoration.
They’d be getting home later.
No explanation needed.
Because in this family, later often meant something memorable had happened.
And sure enough, not long after, the phone rang.
It was Will.
His voice carried excitement, barely contained, layered with the satisfaction of someone who had just finished something big.
He said he was officially out of his three Alabama buck tags.
Just like that.
Season done.
Tags filled.
Plans already shifting.
He was heading out of state for more hunts.
Always moving forward.
Always chasing the next sunrise.
His mother listened, half smiling, half exhausted, and replied with the kind of humor that came naturally to her.
She said it sounded more like his deer season had just ended.
Silence followed.
Then Will responded, mock offense clear in his voice.
“Not funny, Mom.”
“You’re not funny.”
She laughed anyway.
Because mothers always do.
Her thoughts drifted immediately to Lacey.
Lacey, who had sat with him all day.
Lacey, who had waited through the quiet and the cold.
Lacey, who had earned that moment just as much as he had.
In her mind, Will should have let Lacey take the shot and claim the tag.
Fair was fair.
Presence mattered.
Effort mattered.
But Will had always been like this.
He lived in the moment.
Fully.
Unapologetically.
Tomorrow could wait.
Future plans could wait.
If something meaningful was happening right now, he was there.
That philosophy followed him everywhere.
Into the woods.
Into family gatherings.
Into conversations that stretched longer than planned.
It was both a gift and a complication.
Sometimes it meant unforgettable memories.
Sometimes it meant learning lessons the hard way.
But always, it meant life was felt deeply.
The mounts on the wall weren’t trophies to him.
They were timestamps.
Markers of days when the world slowed down enough to be noticed.
Each one came with a story.
Where he was sitting.
Who was with him.
What the air felt like.
What he was thinking when he took the shot.
Those stories spilled out over dinner tables and late-night calls.
They stitched the family together in quiet ways.
Even on days when everyone was tired.
Even when stomach bugs lingered and plans shifted.
Even when life felt messy.
Will didn’t see life as something to conquer.
He saw it as something to experience.
To step into fully.
To respect.
To remember.
And the walls kept filling.
Not just with mounts.
But with meaning.
With proof that a life lived in the moment leaves behind more than memories.
It leaves behind connection.
It leaves behind stories worth retelling.
And long after the seasons changed, and the tags were filled, and the walls ran out of space—
Those moments would still be there.
Quiet.
Steady.
Waiting to be remembered.
