Margaret re-read the letter. It sounded nothing like the Frank Burns she'd known at the 4077th.
The Frank Burns she had known had told bits and pieces of his past, but always held back. He seemed to be holding nothing back, here. This man she once thought she loved who'd never let anyone, including her, get that close.
"Frank, who are you?" she said to herself.
This letter came from a man who seemed to have gotten his life on a very new track. A sane man. A relaxed man. Perhaps even a happy man. He liked being an orderly at a hospital?
"He's not trying to win me back, is he?" she thought. Yet, the rawness and truth she'd read in the letter didn't look like any part of such a plan. "Frank Burns, master manipulator," Margaret laughed at the thought.
She'd outgrown Frank even before she met Donald, Margaret realized.
Since her divorce, she'd altered what she wanted in a man, a companion. A sense of humor, not quite as crazy as Pierce, would always make her feel better. Someone who had Colonel Potter's touch in dealing with people. Energetic, like Klinger. Bright, maybe a little less so than Charles thought of himself. BJ's even nature and kindness. Father Mulcahy's patience. Radar's ability to make whoever spoke with him feel like the most important person there was.
And, perhaps, the willingness to be open to change, like Frank Burns.
Margaret got out stationery and her favorite pen.
Frank Burns deserved a response for that kind of letter.
Forgiveness?
She didn't know. Frank had put her through a lot. As much as she might want to forgive, she wasn't certain she was ready.
What would she write to him?
Was there something she should write to him?
"Dear Frank,
Thank you for your letter." That was as far as she could get.
She felt like she'd opened a door…but wasn't sure what was behind it. Frank hadn't rushed through what he had written – she was sure of that. When Frank had written to his wife, Margaret knew he never gave the matter much thought or effort. Just enough to make certain his wife knew he was thinking about her and missed her. Mainly to keep his financial options open – the house was in her name.
Margaret Houlihan was used to speaking her mind.
In a letter, though….
She knew she wasn't ready to write back just then.
Margaret had treasured a book of poetry by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. That book went where she did.
She grabbed it from her nightstand and paged through.
Somewhere in there, she'd find an answer. An idea. Something that could help.
And she wasn't going anywhere until she could find it.