This summer was brutal. No breeze, no clouds—just burning heat. Carlie, our five-year-old, lived in her kiddie pool. I stuck to the fan. But Alex? He wore long sleeves. Every day.
At first, I thought he was self-conscious. Then I noticed how he flinched when I touched his arm, locked the bathroom door, and avoided changing near me. I overheard him whispering to his mom on the phone, saying, “I’m not keeping it from Ashton forever.”
Then Carlie said something strange while we made sandwiches:
“Why is Daddy hiding his tattoo?”
I froze.
She described it: “My mommy Angela is my only love forever.” In her grandmother’s handwriting.
Angela. The same woman who once said I wasn’t good enough for her son. Who made our wedding day about herself. Who always needed Alex. Now, she was inked into his skin.
That night, I asked Alex about it. He confessed: Angela told him she was dying. She wanted a “permanent gift” to help her fight. He gave her that tattoo—without asking questions. I stared at the fresh ink, red and angry, hidden under long sleeves.
I didn’t believe she was sick.
The next day, I brought groceries to her. She opened the door glowing with health. When I mentioned the tattoo, she smiled and said, “I had to remind you—I’ll always be the most important woman in his life.”
That night, I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just burned quietly. I’d carried this family. I’d made excuses. And now, I was done.
So, I got a tattoo of my own.
Just four words across my collarbone:
“Self-respect, my only love.”
Alex saw it. Said he regretted his. Talked about a cover-up. Carlie suggested a giraffe named Larry.
I didn’t respond. I just smiled at my reflection, knowing I’d finally chosen myself.
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