Episodes

Send us a text This is the last letter my mom wrote in June 1971. It’s also the end of Chapter 2 in this story — one month at a time, one letter at a time. She was 12 weeks pregnant with me and still writing every single day from San Antonio, where she was finishing her time as a U.S. Air Force nurse. My dad, Captain Dick Allgood, was still on alert in Vietnam — a rescue pilot who didn’t talk much about the war, but never missed a day writing to his wife. This is the 52nd letter in June, ...

Send us a text This is the last letter my dad wrote in June 1971 — a month that spanned open heart surgeries, flash floods, military cloud seeding, and long days for my mom at Wilford Hall. Now it’s the 30th. My mom has just a few days left in the Air Force, and she’s preparing to step into motherhood. My dad is still in Vietnam, trying to hold it together the only way he can — by writing to her, every day, without fail. In this letter, he sends love, plans for the future, and plenty of h...

Send us a text On June 29, 1971, my mom — Captain Sarah Allgood — was seated on a prep table at Wilford Hall Medical Center in San Antonio, training two younger nurses through a triple coronary artery bypass. She was over 30, pregnant with me, and had just four days left in the Air Force. She was preparing to hand over her work — but not her standards. The procedure had been on bypass for over two and a half hours. And in the middle of it, she paused to write my dad in Vietnam. She also c...

Send us a text My dad wrote this letter from Da Nang on June 29, 1971. It’s one of those days where his love for my mom just spills over—quietly, sweetly, completely. He tells her, “I be loving you,” and it’s not just a phrase. It’s the truth of how they lived—how they stayed connected every single day across an ocean and a war. He missed her so much he found himself pacing the floor, just needing to hold her. Meanwhile, back in San Antonio, my mom was nearing the end of her military serv...

Send us a text In this letter from June 28, 1971, my mom, Captain Sarah Allgood, is nearing the end of her military nursing duties — just five days from maternity leave and three months pregnant with me. She’s tired, fed up with a chatty coworker, and not holding back about how much she misses my dad. She also blames the endless rain on “the quacks salting the clouds” — a line that sounds like a joke, but isn’t. Between 1967 and 1972, the U.S. military really did seed clouds to alter the we...

Send us a text In this letter, written on June 27, 1971, Captain Sarah Allgood isn’t shy about how much she misses her husband — or how badly she wants him. It’s raw. It’s funny. It’s incredibly personal. And it’s real. From splitting headaches to bridge games, tacos, teenage neighbors asking awkward questions, and heartfelt longing, Sarah’s voice leaps off the page. She jokes about how hard it was to go four pages without writing “I love you.” She remembers the way Dick kissed her eyes a...

Send us a text In this letter from June 28, 1971, my dad writes from Vietnam with tenderness, humor, and longing. He tells my mom how much he loves her — but also, how much he likes her. That mattered to both of them. My parents used to tell me that love alone isn’t enough to make a relationship last. You have to like each other — genuinely. You have to enjoy who the other person is, day after day. This letter is full of raw emotion, sexual tension, and deep connection — but what lingers ...

Send us a text This letter from Captain Dick Allgood, written on June 27, 1971, reveals the tender truth beneath his famously gruff exterior. “I am not a cold bastard,” he writes to his wife, “I just may present that on the surface.” And it’s true. Anyone who knew him knew he was a softy at heart — a man who loved fiercely, laughed loudly, and proudly identified as a tit man, even offering free Allgood T-shirts to any woman in the bar who’d change into one on the spot. But in Vietnam, even ...

Send us a text This project is starting to get heavy — not just because of how much they wrote, but because of what these letters carry. On June 26, 1971, my mom wrote two letters to my dad. She was pregnant with me, and he was across the world in Vietnam. They couldn’t call. There was no FaceTime. No text. Just words written by hand — and a wait of days, maybe even a week, for each one to arrive. In her first letter, she is aching with loneliness. In the second, she softens a little, sha...

Send us a text On June 26, 1971, Dick writes from Vietnam after a quiet, unsettled day. Two new pilots have just arrived — one of them, nicknamed “Pie,” seems like a good guy and will soon become part of this story. The other is clearly nervous, a reminder that no matter how long someone’s been in the Air Force, this place can shake anyone. Dick tries to call Sarah — again — but the call won’t go through. The overseas operator can’t make the connection, and Dick is left sitting with the sil...

Send us a text In this letter, my dad writes from Vietnam on June 25, 1971 — and something about it stopped me. Yesterday, my mom wrote about ESP. About how she could feel him reaching for her across the world. He hadn’t received that letter yet — she’d just mailed it. But somehow, he writes back with the same intensity, like he’s answering without even knowing it. He doesn’t call it ESP. He just calls it love. But it’s there — that connection. The kind that reaches you, even from thousan...

Send us a text In this letter from June 25, 1971, Sarah writes to Dick on her day off — lazy, cozy, and full of longing. She didn’t get a letter that day, and it leaves her feeling empty inside. She knows he’s writing. She just doesn’t trust the U.S. Postal Service to get it right. Still, she finds comfort in rereading his old letters, eating pineapple sandwiches in bed, and talking to her “beautiful, handsome husband by ESP.” And what’s remarkable is that — even though he hadn’t received h...

Send us a text After more than two weeks apart without a successful phone call, Dick and Sarah finally get to speak — even if the connection isn’t great. In this letter, written the same day from Da Nang, Dick reflects on how deeply their love has changed his life, how much he cherishes her voice, and how he can’t even remember what life felt like before they fell in love. He also shares his relief at finally getting a broken tooth fixed — and his raw, unfiltered frustration with the daily gr...

Send us a text In this deeply personal and poetic letter, Sarah writes to Dick from San Antonio after another brutally hot day in the operating room. She shares a poem about ESP and emotional connection — wondering aloud if their bond is so strong it transcends time, space, and reason. She also opens up about exhaustion, everyday frustrations, and the little joys that carry her through — a Coke, a kind doctor, a surprise visit from friends, and the comfort of writing to her husband from bed...

Send us a text It’s June 23, 1971 — and after more than two weeks of missed connections and shutdown phone lines, the call finally goes through. Sarah hears Dick’s voice, and everything rushes in at once: the relief, the longing, the ache of being apart for so long. She writes this letter just after they hang up, still feeling the high of being close to him again — and the emptiness that comes right after. She talks about how much she misses him, how proud she is of the letters he writes,...

Send us a text On June 22, 1971, Dick Allgood hadn’t received any letters in three days—and it left him wondering if Sarah had forgotten to write. Of course, she hadn’t. But it speaks to how closely they watched the mailbag, how much those letters meant, and how deeply they missed each other. This one is pure classic Dick: playful, possessive, deeply loving—and yes, very much an S.D. letter. His mind drifts to his “wittle chick-a-dee,” and let’s just say he hopes she’s saving a bundle of hu...

Send us a text In this letter from June 21, 1971, Sarah writes to Dick after a crushing disappointment: the tape he sent her snapped halfway through playback. She had waited eagerly to hear his voice—only to cry for over an hour when it broke. The rain outside mirrors the ache inside as she describes waking up and instinctively reaching for him, forgetting for a moment that he’s still so far away. Still, her love is steady. She promises she’ll always be his wife, his “wittle chickie-dee,” t...

Send us a text This letter might not look like much on the surface — it’s short, it’s simple, and nothing dramatic is happening. But that’s what makes it hit me. My dad wrote this to my mom, Sarah, on a slow Monday in Vietnam. He’d been on alert all day, but nothing happened. He couldn’t get through to her by phone even though he tried and tried. So instead, he picked up a pen — again — and poured out his love the best way he could. He calls her “my precious,” “wittle chick-a-dee,” and sign...

Send us a text It’s Father’s Day, June 20, 1971. And for the first time in writing, Sarah tells Dick what they’d both been hoping: he’s going to be a father. She’s writing from Texas. He’s flying rescue missions in Vietnam. They are thousands of miles apart — but what’s between them is something rare and unshakable. This isn’t just about becoming parents. It’s about a love that’s real. True. Equal. Sarah writes about a long day on call, the letter that didn’t arrive, and the one that fina...

Send us a text It’s Sunday, June 20, 1971 — Father’s Day — and Captain Dick Allgood hasn’t been able to reach his wife Sarah on the phone for over two weeks. So around noon, while on alert in Vietnam, he picks up a pen and does the next best thing: he writes. This isn’t a long emotional letter — just a midday check-in. A note. A moment of connection. He talks about their bank accounts, her loan, their shared budget, her travel plans to Miami — and yes, how much he loves her. It’s simple...

Send us a text It’s past midnight in Vietnam, and Captain Dick Allgood has just stayed up trying to reach his wife Sarah by phone — again. They haven’t spoken in more than two weeks. But instead of going to sleep, he writes. Because he misses her. Because he wants her to know that she’s his home. This letter is raw and real — filled with longing, worry, hope, and the kind of love most people never find. He calls her his wittle chickie. He asks about her pregnancy symptoms and reassures ...

Send us a text This is the 30th letter my parents exchanged since my dad left for Vietnam 54 days ago — and it still manages to surprise me. It’s June 19, 1971. My dad, Captain Dick Allgood, is in Vietnam. But instead of writing about danger or despair, he’s writing about fireworks, roast beef sandwiches, and how badly he wants my mom — in every possible way. It’s raw. It’s deeply personal. And as their daughter, reading it isn’t always easy. But it’s part of a love story that defies the ...

Send us a text It’s June 19th, 1971, and Sarah is in full pregnancy mode — craving coconut cream custard, upgrading her bra size (34DD, thank you very much), and missing Dick so badly it hurts. In this funny, raw, and tender letter, she shares everything from maternity fashion goals to her deep desire for intimacy, made even more intense by the distance between them. She dishes on her friends’ complicated relationships, vents about missing his letters, and makes it clear: their baby was mad...

Send us a text In this letter from June 18, 1971, my dad, Dick, has just received a bundle of mail from my mom — three letters, a card, and a poem book — and he reads and rereads every word. It’s been days since he heard from her, and nearly two weeks since they’ve been able to talk on the phone — a gap that feels unimaginable today. In this quiet moment of reflection, surrounded by war, he makes a decision that will shape the rest of his life — and mine: he’s going to leave the Air Force. ...