Months passed. Roberta tried to convince herself that the boy in the laundromat had been a moment, not a beginning. But one winter afternoon, her parents called her into the kitchen.


A boy had phoned from Alabama, they said. A polite one. Nervous, but steady. He’d asked—very carefully—whether he might have permission to write to Roberta, call her sometimes, maybe visit with supervision.


Roberta’s mother studied her face, saw the hope she’d been trying to hide. With boundaries firmly set, her parents agreed.


And so began letters. Long ones. Short ones. Ones full of stories about work sites and family dinners. Silly ones. Holiday ones. They folded a bridge between Kansas and Alabama, each envelope making the distance smaller.


When Steve returned to Baxter Springs the next summer, they sat on the porch swing under her parents’ watchful eyes, both older, both sure the spark between them had been real.