The dawn of the Fourth of July had nothing heroic about it.

The light came in through the kitchen blinds like something hesitant. Not like a flag. Not like a promise. Like dust.

Lillian Brown stood in front of the sink and looked at her face in the glass. Her cheek was swollen. Purple fading into yellow. The line from the bone to her mouth had kept the imprint of her husband’s palm like a seal.

Behind her, at the table, eight-year-old Anna was eating cereal and not speaking.

“Mom?” she said finally.

Lillian did not turn immediately. She wanted first to gather her voice.

“Yes, my love?”

“Will you come to the parade?”

The word wasn’t right. Anna had said it that way since she learned to speak. She never corrected her.