Thomas disappeared during the Vietnam War, leaving behind a marriage promise and a young woman who never stopped wondering.
I became a teacher, never married, and marked his birthdays with white roses at a memorial.
When his grandson Daniel brought us together, Thomas admitted he had returned in 1973.
He had married his nurse and raised a family, telling his parents I knew he was alive and wanted no contact. His silence had been a choice.
Now seriously ill, he asked for another chance. I recognized the young man I had loved, but recognition could not erase decades of deception.
I told him I could forgive without pretending nothing had happened, then left without promising to return.
At the memorial, I laid down another rose and kept our photograph in my purse. Later, my sister asked what I wanted next. “I want to see the ocean,” I said. I was finished waiting.
