Excerpt from Part One: A Box of Letters – Page 3

Love, Bill: Finding My Father through Letters from World War II by Jan Krulick-Belin

Excerpt from Part One: A Box of Letters – Page 3:

Queens, New York
Spring 1960

“Daddy, where are you going?” I whispered while standing in the
doorway of the bedroom I shared with my two older brothers.
I somehow knew that this conversation required hushed tones
and would hold a very deep secret that only the two of us would
share. I certainly couldn’t have known back then that there would be
more secrets to come.

It was very early in the morning, that moment when night transitions
to a new day and everything is still cloaked in a velvet silence.
The casement window in our bedroom had been cranked open just
enough to welcome in the heady scent of newly mowed grass mingled
with my mother’s lilac bushes blooming below. My father was
carefully closing the door to my parents’ adjacent bedroom. His back
was toward me; one hand was still on the doorknob, and the other
rested tenderly against the door, as if he were holding back what was
on the other side. Startled, he turned around. He had been caught
like a thief whose clean getaway had been foiled. For a moment, we
both stood frozen in the tiny second-floor vestibule, surrounded by
the four doors that led to the two bedrooms, the linen closet, and the
bathroom.

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Special Quote from the Book

Love, Bill: Finding My Father through Letters from World War II by Jan Krulick-Belin

Special Quote from the Book:

“It’s probably true that every woman gets her first taste of the love and security that is to be found in a man’s arms from the times spent in her father’s. They’re the memories and lessons that we carry with us for the rest of our lives. They’re the ones that we return to each time that a relationship goes wrong or when we feel desperately alone and ask ourselves “Will I ever be loved again?” Sometimes we call upon these memories when we need reassurance, and other times, they appear like specters conjured up by a particular smell, song, or memento. They’re buried so deeply inside of us and are so indelibly imprinted upon our very souls that they can never be erased or forgotten. Our fathers are our first loves, our little-girl heroes, and the mirrors in which we first learn to see ourselves as special and capable of giving and receiving love. If our fathers love us, then we can love ourselves. When they shower our mothers with love and tenderness, we learn to expect the same from all the other men in our lives. Our fathers teach us about strength, wisdom, and life’s practicalities. When they run alongside our two-wheelers for the very first time, they know when to hold on and when to let go. When they scare away the demons in our nightmares, it helps us to be unafraid to dream. Before we learn to stand on our own two feet, we must first learn to dance by standing on theirs. As little girls, we always think that we will marry our fathers; instead, they are here to walk us down the aisle and give us away to someone else. There is truly no other bond like the one between daddies and daughters.”

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