I was 17 in 1943. I was considered a coward among my community. It was never spoken, but every look I got as I walked down the sidewalk told me what they thought.

My mother would never let me listen. Every night, we would share a cup of tea or coffee and share our day. And before I would go up to bed, she would call always call after me… “They’re wrong. They’re wrong because they don’t get to sit here and share this time with you. If they could… they would know the truth.” And I would go to bed.

Sometimes we would get letters from Pop. We read how much he missed us over in Europe and how he’d bring back souvenirs for us. I would cry…because I missed him and I loved him. And how I couldn’t be there… fighting along with him.

I hated walking into my house and always seeing that blue star hanging in our window. I hated war…still do. I guess that’s what made me a coward. I wasn’t doing what I could to help on the home front.

When that star changed to a gold one, I decided to do something. I decided to do something for Pop because he wouldn’t ever be home again. I couldn’t do much because most of my small town thought I was useless. But finally, they let me deliver telegrams…. which really meant I was delivering the news. I was delivering the paper that families either dreaded or prayed for: whether their father, or their son, or their brother would be coming home.

I hated my job. I did it for my mother.

We needed the money. She did get out and help at the plant, riveting or something. But Pop had always handled bills and we were up to our necks in bills that we didn’t know how to pay. So I was out there… rain or shine… delivering the news.

I stepped onto one doorstep, one early January evening. Many houses still had their holiday lights up, which were mostly red, white and blue. You know…because they were doing their part on the home front. I knocked. I noticed three blue stars in the window. I cringed. I hated my job.

A mother answered, a smile on her face from whatever conversation or dinner she left to answer the door. Her smile cracked and fell the moment she set her eyes on me. I strived to keep a straight face.

“Telegram.” I mumbled. She snatched the letter and tore it open right at the door. Her eyes darted madly behind tears of fear over the words before her. She dropped to her knees, calling madly to her little daughter who came running.

She cried and hugged her daughter. Her twin sons and her husband were coming home. There on the floor, with the door letting the cold come in, in front of this awkward telegram boy, the mother hugged her daughter tight and rocked back in forth in joy.

I slowly stepped away, without giving any goodbye. Then I thought nothing of the joy that mother was feeling. Because there would always be another… another that wouldn’t feel that joy. My mother never felt that joy.

I blinked at the address I was to deliver the next telegram to. I hated my job.