March 28th, 1944

Dear Bucky,

The most awful thing has happened. I'm not even sure if I can write it. I've started this letter at least a dozen times and I haven't been able to do it yet. I either rip the page because I can't see it or it gets so wet from me crying over it that you could hardly read what little I'd managed to write. But I just can't stop, and when I do, the littlest thing gets me going again. It just hurts so much...and telling you is no little thing. It's the hardest thing I've ever had to do, Bucky.

Danny's been killed, Bucky. It's such a horrible thing to write. And writing makes it feel real. Too real. I keep hoping that we'll find out they were wrong again, that they made a mistake like with you...but somehow, I can just feel it.

It hurts, Bucky.

It was on some little hateful island in the Pacific almost a month ago. I think the name of it was in the letter but I just don't care. I don't want to know. I'm sure Mom will tell you...when she's up to writing again.

Mom is devastated. She keeps pretending she's alright for me and Jack, but whenever we aren't looking, I know she can't stop crying anymore than I can. I've seen her sitting so many times, ready to write to you, but all she can do is stare at the page or stare out the kitchen window. And Abigail? Oh Bucky, I can't even bear to think about her. It feels like my heart breaks all over again. After she brought the letter? Part of me HATED her. I think I even yelled at her. I can't remember. But now—she's just as heartbroken as all of us, Bucky. It wasn't fair for me to be so mad at her. I know that and I feel awful for it. But I couldn't help it. Does that make me a horrible person? I don't even know if I care, right now. Not when he's—

With you, they told us you were missing, presumed dead. But with Danny—

Come home, Bucky. Please?

We need you to come home.

Beatrice

A/N: Thanks for Reading!

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