If you haven’t yet read parts one through three, you can read all four parts chronologically here. In fact, it’s a good refresher for everyone, as the first post dates back to almost a year ago.

I’ve been meaning to deliver the letter to Margaretha, but for a variety of reasons the opportunity did not present itself until earlier this week, when she and her daughter and I agreed to meet at Tranan after workI was early so I spent half an hour in Stockholm’s public library and its remarkable reading room, designed by the renowned Swedish modernist Erik Gunnar Asplund..

I sat myself at a table, ordered a glass of wine and waited, somewhat nervously, with the letter in my bag. I was on the lookout for a woman in her early fifties accompanied by her daughter. Margaretha arrived alone, however, and as neither of us knew each other, there was some hesitation before we ventured to introduce ourselves.

Within minutes, it was clear we were going to get along wonderfully (in Swedish). She is engaging and witty, and I realized I lucked out with my letter delivery. Monika, her journalist daughter, soon joined us. They share the same gestures and flash the same smile. It’s obvious they are close.

I produce the letter. Margaretha produces photo albums from 1970. She’s even managed to unearth a photograph of the letter’s author, Bengt M—, courtesy of a move in the last few months. Here he is doing his military service, from the exact period they were going out. From her photo album, here is a picture of Margaretha doing her studenten, a high school graduation ritual, a month or two before the letter in question was written:

And then, over the course of an hour or so, she fills in the details. When Margaretha graduated, she was was going out with Bengt, who was doing his military service. That summer, she moved to Stockholm to study while working at the central bank. For a few months she stayed at student housing at the address to which Bengt addressed the letter.

Within weeks of arriving in Stockholm, however, she had met and was dating Rolf, who also worked at the bank. Bengt was not aware of this when he wrote the letter, in which he mentions visiting her in Stockholm in the coming days. He did visit, and she broke up with him then. Margaretha winces a little when telling this part. Apparently, Bengt asked her why she couldn’t just have phoned him the bad news, thus saving him the trip. A debate ensues with her daughter about what the etiquette is for breaking up in such circumstances. Bengt didn’t get angry, however, just disappointed, Margaretha says. He was gentle and kind.

She met Bengt one more time, during the Christmas holidays later in 1970, when things were still a bit awkward, and they lost touch after that. The group of friends they had in common also drifted apart over the years, though most of them still live in the same area in southern Sweden.

Margaretha married Rolf, the man she broke up with Bengt for; they’ve had two children and lived in Luxembourg and Gothenburg before settling in Stockholm. It turns out that when I called, the children were under the impression their dad was her first love. But how many of us know the details of our parents’ pre-marital love lives? I certainly don’t, and it will stay that way unless somebody calls me with news of a long-lost love letter addressed to my mother from somebody patently not my father.

After I called and Margaretha saw the letter online, she looked for Bengt M— online, found him living in the area where they grew up and called him. He remembered her without prompting. In brief: He is a construction engineer and recently divorced. This summer, Monika is travelling to southern Sweden, and she says she will try to meet up with Bengt, so he can tell his side of the story. When she reports back, you’ll read about it here.

Then, it was time for photo ops:

Note the lovely Swedish summer weather.

As to what this letter was doing on a ledge on St. Marks Place — that mystery remainsMargaretha and Monika, if parts of your story got lost in translation, need clarification or if you want to add anything, please go right ahead.. I don’t think we’ll ever uncover its trajectory, from student housing in Stockholm in 1970 to the sidewalks of New York in 1999.