Gladys was poised to place herself in this new world full-force, rectifying the wrongs that had been done to her mother, be it through political means or bringing issues to light in the public sphere. Dottie was going to be a mother herself soon enough and would certainly follow the path of so many women generations before her. Staying home and raising her children.

Margaret saw the beauty in both. This was her time to discover what it was she wanted.

“Are you sure you’re not sweet on this boy?” her mother asked one afternoon. She’d just taken the wooden spoon out of her pot of vegetable soup and tasted it. She sprinkled some salt and returned to stirring.

“He’s just a friend,” Margaret had answered, tiring of the question. Why was romance the assumed motivation behind any interaction with the opposite gender? “You know how much John likes to hear from us. William likes letters too. I’m sure they all do.”

“Is he the one you knit the socks for?”

“Yes. But I send some to John and their other roommate, Tom, as well.”

“They must have the warmest feet in all of England!”

Margaret grinned. “I certainly hope so. And we’re well on our way to making enough for their whole company. If it takes cozy toes to defeat Hitler, then you can be damn sure I’ll knit until my fingers fall off.”

“Margaret Jane Beck!” her mother scolded. “Did you pick up that kind of language at the Navy Yard?”

She would be scandalized to know that damn was the least of what Margaret heard the men at the Navy Yard say. And some of the women.

“Sorry, Mom. It just slipped out.”

Margaret climbed the narrow steps until she got to her bedroom, enjoying the scent of the simmering soup and already thinking about dinnertime. She shut the door and ran some scissors along the top of the envelope.

The familiar handwriting was such a source of peace for her. It was very neat, as if William was well practiced in the art of it. Though given the beautiful flower sketches he’d been including at the end of every letter, it made sense that he would be elegant with a pen.

John’s handwriting looked like chicken scratch in comparison.

The Browns surprised us with an American-style Thanksgiving, William wrote.

Remarkably, they’d saved and traded ration coupons for weeks in order to do so. They kept the secret well! John said that Mrs. Brown made apple pie even better than your mom does (though don’t tell her he said so), and Tom and I had to agree that she’d bested our mothers as well. She’d never made it before, she insisted, and I don’t know her secret, but we’re hoping that she’ll bake another even though the holiday is over. Maybe we’ll look ahead to Christmas.