A mile passed.
Then another.
“You are right.”
The words came without defense.
“I thought if I said anything, I would be violating the promise.”
“You could have said, ‘Do not disrespect my wife.’”
“Yes.”
I felt my anger loosen, not disappear.
“I should have explained that too.”
We drove the rest of the way home in silence.
Inside the bedroom, I opened the bottom dresser drawer.
Daniel stood in the doorway.
Beneath the sweaters sat the flat blue case.
I lifted it onto the bed.
For six years of marriage, Daniel had never opened it without me.
I clicked the latches.
Inside were my old rank insignia, a Purple Heart, a Bronze Star Medal, photographs from units I had served with, and a folded citation I had read only twice in sixteen years.
Daniel sat beside me.
He did not touch anything.
“This is not the hardest part,” I said.
“I know.”
The hardest part was the scar beneath my sweater and the memories no case could contain.
I picked up the Bronze Star.
“For years I thought if people knew about this, they would look at me and see only the event.”
Daniel nodded.
“So I made sure they saw nothing.”
He looked at me carefully. “Do you want that to change?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the honest answer.
The next morning, Victor emailed Daniel.
