Phantom

January 14, 1945

The cold, dreary weather is putting me in a mood that rivals the ice clinging to my windows.

Frank even noticed my sour state when he stopped by today.

He tried to cheer me up with bad jokes. I’ll admit I laughed at one or two, but I can’t seem to muster much more than that.

Ronaldo and I argued yesterday.

He said he can’t stand that I’m still with John. He’s incredibly jealous, and I can’t say I entirely blame him. Not when the thought of him with another woman nearly makes me blind with rage.

But Ronaldo’s life is still far too dangerous. How could I give up stability for my daughter for a man whose life could get us killed?

I’m at a loss.