They’d written back and forth while he was in Austria, where the 101st had retreated until the fighting was finally over. He’d noticed that each letter grew ever warmer and it was his dearest hope that they’d both put that last chapter fully behind them. On the anniversary of William’s death, Tom sent her a vile of half the dirt he’d collected in Normandy. And she sent him a pair of yellow socks. A very un-soldierly color, she admitted, but one that evoked the sunshine that a new day was bringing.

He wore them proudly. Once upon a time, John and William would have razzed him for it. But now he believed that if they had all survived, his two brothers in arms would have encouraged him to cling to every sappy memento of happiness. For their sakes.

Margaret’s last letter had spoken of the future.

Gladys and Oliver will soon move to England and then to wherever the London Times sends them. They’ve offered Gladys her own column speaking about women’s issues around the globe, and though the pay is a pittance, she is excited for the opportunity. I’m going to take over Gladys’s job as the manager of the women’s office, which means I’ll have to leave my position in the welding department. But I might not have had the job for long anyway. The men will be coming home soon and rejoining the workforce, and there are rumors that almost all of the women will be asked to leave.

Maybe it is just as well. I’ve had time to reflect on what I’ve learned at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Especially about myself. I learned that I want to work with my hands. I’ve learned that coming together for a common purpose is a remarkable thing to behold. I’ve learned that I always want to work near a chocolate factory and smell chocolate-flavored air.

But more than all that. I’ve learned that the most precious parts of life are watching Joanna take her first steps. Observing the love of Dottie and George and Oliver and Gladys and discovering that I want that for myself as well. And I’ve realized how important it is that I take care of my parents.

I don’t know the details of what my future holds. But I know “who” it holds. And that’s all that matters.

She’d signed it just a bit differently:

Until we meet,

Margaret

*  *  *

Tom had not told Margaret that the Airborne was coming home. He hardly would have had time to do so anyway, as their long-anticipated departure seemingly came overnight. But as he thought about it and imagined what would be both a first meeting and a reunion, he decided that he wanted it to be a surprise.