Every head turned. It was General Arthur Wexley, the current chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He stood slowly, not taking his eyes off my father.
“Sir, that song, it’s the anthem of Ghost Team 7, the forbidden anthem.”
My father froze, his hands clenched on the edge of the table. Color drained from his face. I saw it from the stage. His jaw slackened, his eyes darted, but he didn’t speak. I didn’t stop singing because I knew exactly what that song meant. I knew what it carried, and I knew what it revealed. My father had just exposed a secret he spent 15 years helping to bury by forcing me, his daughter, to sing it as a joke.
A few hours earlier, I was standing behind the velvet curtain, waiting for my turn. The gala buzzed with polished laughter and the clinking of champagne flutes. My father stood confidently at the podium, his voice booming with pride, not for me, but for himself.
“My daughter Serena served, too. Not in the way most of us did, of course. She had her own special contributions.”
He didn’t wink, but his tone did the winking for him.
“She’s here to sing us a little tune. Something sentimental, I’m told. Let’s give her a hand. she could use the encouragement.”
More laughter, a few scattered claps. Someone muttered, “A singing soldier, that’s new.” Behind the curtain, I adjusted my collar. My throat was dry, but not from nerves. It was anticipation. I had made my choice days ago. I wasn’t here to entertain. I was here to test a truth. He didn’t know the song I picked. He didn’t know the weight it carried. and he definitely didn’t know that he was the reason I had carried it in silence for so long.
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