It was 1970. My husband, Barry, was on his second tour of duty in Vietnam. All I wanted was for him to come home safely. I wrote him a letter every day, and on the back of each envelope, I noted how many days to go (“DTG”) till we would be together again.
But one day I lost it. I was sick and tired of missing Barry, of tiptoeing around the house, of not being able to live my own life. The Army wouldn’t let spouses stay in military quarters during deployments, so I’d taken our toddler son and moved back in with my parents.
There I was, 38 weeks pregnant, trying to corral my rambunctious 20-month-old plus a German shepherd in heat, and keep them quiet all day so my parents, who worked nights, could sleep.
My stress and frustration boiled over. “I don’t want to be an Army wife anymore,” I wrote. I detailed all the reasons I was miserable. I stuck the letter in an envelope, sealed it and wrote “#149 DTG” on the back, my pen digging in so furiously it almost ripped the paper.
One hundred forty-nine days to go…149 days I would no longer have to wait. I handed the letter to the mailman with a feeling of sullen satisfaction.
By the time I came to my senses, it was too late to get the letter back. I pictured my husband in the jungle, getting shot at. Not knowing if he’d see me or our son again, if he’d ever get a chance to hold our baby. I wrote him again. “Please disregard my last letter. Forget it even existed.”
I told him how sorry I was, how I couldn’t wait for him to come home. “No matter what, remember I love you.”
I heard back sooner than I expected. To his credit, Barry didn’t write one word about #149 DTG. He just told me he was safe, that he missed me and loved me. But I still beat myself up about that letter. It must have crushed him.
A few weeks later the mailman knocked at the door. “Mrs. Holland,” he said, his expression grave, “I’m sure that your husband is okay. This must be some kind of mistake….”
He handed me a crinkled envelope, a muddy tire track smeared across the front. Below it someone had written, “Address Unknown, Person Not Found.”
I turned the envelope over. #149 DTG.
I assured the mailman, “My husband is fine.” So is our marriage. We’ll celebrate our fiftieth wedding anniversary this year.
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