Fifteen Years After My Father Changed the Locks, He Seated Me at Table Twenty-Two
I did not pin them to the navy dress.
I slipped both silver stars into the inner zipper pocket of my navy clutch purse, sliding them down beside my military ID card and my official service record sheet.
When I reached to close the purse, my fingers brushed against a piece of heavy cream cardstock tucked into the side slot.
It was not my card.
The handwriting was rounded and quick, written in the dark blue ballpoint ink I had seen on high school loose-leaf paper fifteen years ago.
“Trust me,” the note said.
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