He also left instructions that this flag be given to you.”
The three of them looked at the folded triangle.
One child touched the edge cautiously.
“Do we have to forgive him?”
No camera shutter sounded then.
Even Beatrice went still.
I answered before anyone else could.
“No.”
My son looked at me.
“You don’t?”
“No.
A flag doesn’t tell you what to feel.”
General Bradley’s eyes lowered for a moment.
The children accepted the flag together.
It was awkward in six small hands, so I helped them hold it.
Scarlett began crying again.
This time she turned away from the cameras.
After the ceremony, she approached me without Beatrice.
“I didn’t know,” she said.
I believed that she had not known everything.
That did not make us friends.
It did not rewrite the affair.
It did not erase the image of her sitting beside Garrett years ago while I learned how to manage three premature infants alone.
But truth did not require me to invent extra guilt for her either.
“He lied to both of us,” I said.
She nodded.
“I thought he chose me because you didn’t want him.”
“He chose himself.”
That was the simplest version.
Her hand moved over her belly.
“What do I tell this child?”
“The truth when they’re old enough to carry it.”
She looked toward the grave.
“And what is the truth?”
I considered the question.
“That Garrett could be selfish and afraid.
That he hurt people.
That at the end, he did something brave.
None of those facts cancels the others.”
Scarlett wiped her face.
Then she walked away alone.
Beatrice waited near a car.
As I passed, she called my name.
“Alex.”
I stopped.
She looked older than she had an hour earlier.
“You enjoyed that.”
I stared at her.
“Enjoyed what?”
“Making us look foolish.”
I almost answered with anger.
Seven years earlier, I would have.
Instead, I looked at my children holding their father’s flag.
“You told me to stay where I belong.”
Beatrice’s expression hardened.
“Yes.”
