"I hate Carthage," I say on December 3, 1962. So of course, I can only be nostalgic for it now. I don't even know if there was actual ivy (the scourge of Northwest gardens), but I can almost remember ivy-covered gothic halls and picturesque walks and a library with sunny windows and leather seats. I don't think it had those either, but it did have an approximation.

His "signature" signature to me is "I am fine and very much in love with you." Mine to him is "I love you, now and forever."

We already know what a mish I made of that one. I wish there were something here from the "transition period." How and when did I change my mind? Was it something so simple as wanting to live in Chicago? Or was it something deeper? Do those other letters of mine - the ones where I sound almost certifiable - indicate the true nature of things? Did I run from one I considered my equal, "perfect for me" - I say that very thing in this letter - and pick men from then on in to whom I always felt just a shade superior? Did that make me more comfortable?

Here, he seems to have apologized to me for something over Thanksgiving weekend - how he didn't do right by me somehow, and I spend one long gushy page telling him that he was just the ticket for me, that I was "not going to fool around and settle for second best."

And then, that's exactly what I did.

How brave do we have to be to choose the right one?

Obviously, I wasn't brave enough.