“It represents a lie,” Sarah spat. She walked toward the grill. The coals were glowing a deep, angry red.
“Sarah, don’t,” I warned, taking a step forward.
“Fake things belong in the trash,” she declared.
With a flick of her wrist, she dropped the Silver Star onto the grill.
It landed directly on the white-hot coals. The ribbon began to smoke instantly. The silver metal sat there, baking in the fire, a sacred object desecrated by a woman who had never sacrificed anything but her husband’s money.
For a second, nobody moved. The sight of the medal lying in the ash was shocking, even to Sarah’s sycophantic friends. The ribbon caught fire, a small curl of blue flame licking at the fabric.
Then, a blur of motion.
“NO!”
It was Noah.
My son dropped his coloring book and sprinted across the patio. He didn’t see the fire; he only saw his mother’s honor burning. He knew the story of that star. He knew about the ambush in the Korengal Valley. He knew about the blood I had scrubbed off my hands.
“Aunt Sarah stole it!” Noah screamed, his voice cracking with childish desperation. “Mom is a hero! You can’t burn it!”
He reached for the grill, his small hand hovering dangerously close to the heat, trying to grab the edge of the grate to shake the medal loose.
“Get away from there, you little rat!” Sarah shrieked.
She wasn’t worried about him burning himself. She was embarrassed. A child was yelling at her in front of her audience. Her authority was being challenged.
She reacted with the instinct of a bully.
She swung her hand.
CHAA-ACK.
The sound was wet and heavy, louder than the pop of the distant firecrackers. It was the sound of flesh striking flesh with full force.
Sarah slapped my eight-year-old son across the face.
The force of the blow lifted Noah off his feet. He was small for his age, fragile. He spun in the air and crashed backward onto the concrete patio.
THUD.
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