At My Purple Heart Ceremony, My Stepmother Swung a Folding Chair Into My Arm—Then My Father Looked Down Instead of Protecting Me
Ordinary life.
That is the ending I prefer.
Not Gertrude being led away.
Not a general defending me.
Not three hundred people learning what happened in combat.
Not even my father finally admitting he failed me.
The ending is that none of those people define the temperature of my home anymore.
A chair can scrape across a floor.