The ribbon remained damaged.
The metal still carried scorch marks.
Some suggested replacing it completely.
I refused.
The burns stayed.
So did the scratches.
Because they were part of its story now.
One year later, Eli and I attended a ceremony at a local veterans’ center.
The restored medal sat inside a glass display.
Not because I wanted recognition.
But because Eli asked.
“People should know what happened,” he told me.
During the ceremony, a reporter asked him if he was proud that his mother was a four-star general.
Eli thought carefully before answering.
Then he smiled.
“No.”
