I never told my wife about Margaret. Summer of 1962. We were 18. She worked at the ice cream shop on Lake Street. I enlisted that fall. Wrote her 14 letters from overseas.
“Hello, Robert,” the woman across the table said, her voice shaking just enough to make me stop searching my pocket for my reading glasses. I looked up. The senior center basement …
I never told my wife about Margaret. Summer of 1962. We were 18. She worked at the ice cream shop on Lake Street. I enlisted that fall. Wrote her 14 letters from overseas. Read More