My family asked me not to wear my uniform to my grandfather’s military tribute because it would embarrass them in front of the guests. An hour later a four-star general stepped up to the microphone and looked straight at the back row.

“Isn’t that a bit much? For a family thing?”

“It’s a military ceremony.”

And Preston laughed. “That doesn’t mean it’s your ceremony.”

I let it go. I have been letting it go since 2013.

Inside, before anything started, we sat at the family table near the front. About twenty-five people at that end of the room. Preston’s boss was two tables away and he had mentioned it four times in the car.

I had my dress cap on the table in front of me. That is where it goes when you are seated.

And Preston reached over and took it.

He did not throw it. He picked it up, put it on the empty chair beside him, and put his hand on it.

And he said, loud enough for that end of the room:

“Give me that. Take the hat off at least, Rhi. It’s Grandad’s day, not a recruitment stand. People are looking.”

Somebody laughed. One of Kendra’s friends.

My mother looked at the table.