How My Male Pen Pal Became So Much More

It's something I never expected.

By

Bea Lewis

 
Published September 10, 2026
Illustration of older adults using laptop computers while surrounded by scenes of social interaction and community engagement
Vidhya Nagarajan

If you are about my age — mid-80s — chances are you had a pen pal in elementary school. Corresponding with someone your age living in another country was part of a nationwide social studies program connecting students from the United States with those in other countries.

I remember how excited I was to receive a handwritten letter from my assigned “pen pal” who was attending a grammar school in London. She wrote about her brothers and sisters and how she loved to play jump rope! I too shared information about my family and drew pictures of the Girl Scout badges I was recently awarded. The envelopes made of the thin parchment airmail paper were stamped with pictures of the King and Queen. (Funny that I remember that my special “pal” lived at 7 Hope Street, but her name has faded from my memory.)

Welcome to the digital age. Millions today are doing something remarkably similar — sharing our thoughts and innermost feelings with the written word — but now through e-mails and texts. Maybe a better term for pen pal (using a pen to write a letter) should be E-pal. The name can be changed, but the purpose remains the same. It allows us to express ourselves with things we might not feel comfortable sharing when chatting face to face.

Let me tell you about my special E-pal. It’s a happy story. His name is Phil and we met on an internet dating site five years ago. Meeting someone on an internet dating site can have similar results as the old-fashioned pen pal method by sharing our thoughts and feelings in writing. I remember the first time I read Phil’s bio online. His photo showed a sweet-looking man, but when I looked closely I sensed some loneliness.

The first line of his bio informed me that he was still married; his wife was living in a facility due to her advanced dementia. I should have moved on to another man’s bio, but his next paragraph made me reconsider. “My kids were concerned about my loneliness," he wrote. “Dad, we think you should consider getting out and dating.” They helped write his bio: “I’m looking for someone to meet for dinner; maybe see a movie, or even spend a day at the beach.”

I wrote back: “You have wonderful children. This is not an easy time for you. I wish you lots of luck going forward.”

Later that day, he wrote: “Thank you. I appreciate your encouragement. Tell me how you are doing."

And so began a month of our daily (sometimes twice a day) e-mail correspondence. We shared information about our careers, the joy of having grandchildren. We wrote about our childhoods; he grew up in Brooklyn, I was from the Bronx. We learned we had some friends in common having raised our families in neighboring towns on Long Island.

With each “you’ve got mail" message, we learned more about each other. I looked forward to hearing from him; he felt the same. We then made a schedule: speak before breakfast, again at bedtime. (Phil is an organized type of guy. If he says he’ll call at six, my phone dings at that exact moment.)

Our friendship was blossoming. After two months of our daily online communication, Phil suggested we meet for lunch and made a reservation at a lovely café near the ocean. I was nervous, changing my outfit a few times until I felt my physical appearance would not disappoint.

Years passed and our friendship turned into a relationship. After years of struggling with dementia, Phil’s wife passed away. We began spending time together to enjoy the many things we discovered we had in common — having dinner at local eateries, enjoying a good movie, even taking a walk on the boardwalk at a nearby nature reserve.

Last year, Phil and I moved in together. Driving back and forth from his home to mine became a hassle. Nighttime driving was no longer an option when his vision began to deteriorate.

Moving was not easy for our aging bones, but with the help of our children we managed to empty all the boxes and bags to put our apartment into good enough shape.

The first night after we unpacked, we collapsed on the living room couch, taking a deep breath of relief and sipping on a glass of Cognac to celebrate.

All of a sudden, Phil left the room. He checked the half-open boxes and bags, looking for a gift he had brought me. (It was in one of the suitcases he hadn’t yet opened.)

I opened the gift, which was loosely wrapped in a leftover bag from Publix.

I could hardly catch my breath when I opened it to see the months of back-and-forth e-mail communication that he had printed out and placed in a booklet.

E-mail perhaps, but still those letters, which he tied with a bow, were special enough to save in my underwear drawer. These, along with other important mementos of my life, are kept, including the now torn and tattered letters from my childhood pen pal who lived at 7 Hope Street in London, England.

Have any of you ever had a pen pal? Let us know in the comments below.

Before retirement, Bea Lewis was a staff writer for Newsday and New York Newsday. When she and her husband moved to Florida, she penned a Q&A column for The Palm Beach Post on parent/adult child relationships, and then shared that information in My Kids Are All Grown Up, So Why Are They Still Driving Me Crazy? How to Get Along With Your Adult Children, Their Spouses and Other Aliens. When her husband passed away, she shared her experiences in A Widow’s Journey: How I Went from Loss, to Learning, to Moving On. Bea has three daughters, five granddaughters, one grandson, and two great-granddaughters.