People thought they were mother and daughter.
And they could have been. One woman’s hair was graying and wrinkles were appearing on her face. Their eyes, similar shades of blue, sparkled in the same way. They spoke the same, even.
Ten years of living together will do that to you.
They sat across from each other, maintaining a façade they had to keep up because the younger woman donned a military uniform, the forest green bringing out the red highlights in her blonde hair. The older woman thought that it made her look elegant.
The uniform would be pressed and put away when they arrived home, though, for it kept them from being who they were. It separated them, so they hid it, just like they had to hide their relationship when the uniform was out.
The worst moment comes when she has to leave again, and they stand at the airport and hug briefly. There is no kiss goodbye, no “I love you;” no long embrace to last them the length of time apart or the distance between them. The younger woman tells her Captain that the woman who dropped her off is her mother, and even though she knows it has to be said, it hurts when she hears the words spill out of her soft lips. The woman with the graying hair and the beautiful skin is so far from her mother it’s ridiculous. Her Captain would be embarrassed if he knew what they spent the night doing.
The woman with the graying hair always spends the first night she is gone fully awake, praying out loud and asking a God she doesn’t even believe in to make sure that her lover stays safe. It is on one of these nights that she gets the call – driving from the airport to their camp, their platoon was hit. No survivors.
The funeral is the hardest. The young woman’s father, an Army General, receives the flag, unaware his daughter, an Officer Cadet, was even in a relationship. The older woman stands off to the side, hugging her arms to her chest. She wants to storm the casket, tell the world that they were together, and say goodbye, but instead she leaves, stepping lightly to keep her heels from sinking in to the grass. The gunshots make her flinch as she walks away.
She is barely to the parking lot when the Captain catches up with her, a folded flag tucked under his arm.
“Ma’am?”
She turns, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I thought – they said there were no survivors.”
He looks down. “I wasn’t with them. I stayed behind to finish paperwork. I was going to follow the next day.” It is clear he feels responsible as he lets out a deep breath. “I know you aren’t her mother.”
The wrinkles on the woman’s face deepen. “I’m sorry?”
He holds out the flag, pressing it in to her hands. “I’m smarter than Angela thought.”
“Only family members get these,” she whispers, staring down at the flag. It isn’t enough, but at least it’s something.
“You were her family,” he says, stepping closer to her. “And I know I would want my husband to have one.”
Her eyes widen with surprise and he nods at her, turning around and walking back towards the burial site. She watches him go and then leaves for home, resting the flag on her mantle when she gets there. She receives some of Angela’s belongings later in the month, and silently thanks the Captain for knowing what they couldn’t tell.
When people come over and ask about the flag, she tells them that it was for her daughter. Even years later, it’s hard to let go of the façade.
