My handwriting is surely familiar.

That is what I am writing to explain.

John, William, and I shared everything. Socks, cigarettes—though I passed on those—letters. Unless there was something of a private nature said, we considered letters to be community property. No matter whose family had sent them, they sustained us more than I could ever describe.

From the beginning, William could tell that reading your letters put a smile on my face. He said it was a particular smile that he never saw me wear any other time. He pinned your picture to my pillow and I never removed it. Not until we left Chilton Foliat. It was nice to wake up to your beautiful face.

I lost it a few weeks ago during a battle. It had survived Arctic temperatures and got scratched by shrapnel and it even got bled upon. It had faded and white lines ran down where it was folded.

But it was my most treasured possession, for all that it symbolized. “You” have been with me, Margaret. Your picture reminded me every day that there was something worth living for.

And now for the difficult part. You see, of course, that I have spoken here of William in the past tense. And this is why I have put off this letter for far, far too long. William died in Normandy. All the way back in June. He was a hero, Margaret, and I will love and remember him until my last breath. On that first day in France, he ran to a bunker full of Germans and tossed a grenade into it, killing all the men. But a sniper lurked in the trees and caught him right in the chest. I saw him fall. I think it got him instantly because he didn’t even shout. Just collapsed and never moved. It is something that haunts me to this day. I often think of his parents and his sisters in Arlington. The first thing I want to do when I return—right after I see you—is go see his family. And tell them how much he was cherished.

I know you’ll need some time to grieve through that. So please put this letter down if you feel like you need to. Cry on it—I chose heftier paper instead of air mail so that it can withstand your tears. Or maybe you’ll want to rip it up when you read what I have to say next.

You’ll be confused, of course, why you continued to receive letters from William when D-Day was already so long ago.

To that, I can only say, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

You deserve an explanation. Please do not see this as an excuse, because I don’t pretend that what I did was right.