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I was twenty-one when my college sweetheart, Thomas, disappeared during the Vietnam War. I was seventy-six when a stranger approached me at the airport holding an old photograph of us. “My grandfather asked me to find you,” he said. “His name is Thomas, and he’s alive.”
Thomas and I had fallen in love in college. He was an engineering student who teased me for studying literature, and I joked that engineers made terrible boyfriends. We planned to marry after graduation. Before he deployed, he promised, “I’ll buy you a proper engagement ring when I get back.” Six months later, military officers informed me that his aircraft had disappeared. No body was found, and his status remained missing in action.
For decades, I waited for news. I never married, although I built a fulfilling life as an English teacher. Every year on Thomas’s birthday, I visited a memorial for missing servicemen and placed a white rose there. I always brought our college photograph and told him about my life. I never stopped wondering whether he might somehow return.
Then, at the airport, his grandson Daniel told me the impossible truth. Thomas had survived, been captured, and eventually returned home in 1973. He had married a nurse named Margaret, raised two children, and lived for decades. Now elderly and seriously ill, he wanted to see me again. I couldn’t understand how he could have come home without contacting me.