From “September 1943”:

…The real danger, D., is that I’m going to become a ghost while I’m still alive. I feel like I’m getting so thin, pulled between sleeplessness and worry and tending Abigail, that there'll be nothing left of me by the time this war’s over. It doesn’t help that you’re not here to fill in some of those empty spaces. I know how much you hate it that you can’t, so don’t worry. I’m too tired to blame anyone or anything anyway. You just can’t know how much of my energy still goes towards loving you.

From “December 1943”:

And even though our innocence died when that burning building came crashing down, our sense of purpose as a people was restored. I no longer had to hear my father called a ‘babykiller’ for his service in Belgium and even you, as a worker and Reservist, were now understood and admired for those professions rather than being questioned.

From “January 1944”:

…the real measure of a father isn’t how well he keeps freedom safe, but how he keeps his daughter safe from what’s under the bed. It’s more than just warriors that are lost; it’s bedtime stories, goodnight kisses, sheets tucked just right, and falling asleep with the smell of someone who you love draped over you. It’s staying awake just to hear that someone talk, no matter what about. It’s all the games played when awake, the Airplane rides, the bicycle lessons, the patience and the insight and the caring bond that can never be mended if broken. These things are lost, lost in unimaginable numbers with each bridge or hill or farmhouse. And so these are what I spend all the strength I have trying not to cry over. And of course I pray.