At sixteen, I became pen pals with a young soldier named Eddie. Then, without warning, his letters stopped, and I spent decades believing I’d never know why. More than fifty years later, a chance meeting at a veterans’ museum reunited us—and a bundle of unopened letters revealed that neither of us had ever stopped writing. The mail had failed us, but friendship had simply been waiting for the right moment to arrive.
The cardboard box had been sitting in my hallway for almost a week. Inside were my late husband’s military uniforms. His medals. A folded American flag from his funeral. And …
At sixteen, I became pen pals with a young soldier named Eddie. Then, without warning, his letters stopped, and I spent decades believing I’d never know why. More than fifty years later, a chance meeting at a veterans’ museum reunited us—and a bundle of unopened letters revealed that neither of us had ever stopped writing. The mail had failed us, but friendship had simply been waiting for the right moment to arrive. Read More
