I thought forgiving the person who’d kept us apart would be the hardest part. I was wrong. One name made my husband fall silent, and suddenly I had questions of my own. When I was nineteen, I promised my husband I’d wait for him while he was in Vietnam. I kept that promise for fifty-five years.
Danny and I had been together since high school. We were the kind of ridiculous young couple who thought holding hands beneath a diner table counted as a proper date.
We were nineteen, broke, and completely convinced none of that mattered.
One afternoon, Danny fed quarters into a vending machine near our favorite diner and returned with two cheap metal rings sealed inside plastic capsules.
“There,” he said, sliding one onto my finger. “Now we can afford to get married.”
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“You realize this thing will probably turn my finger green?”
