Two days after his eighteenth birthday, my son walked into the kitchen wearing the proud smile he usually saved for terrible decisions.
“Hey, Mom. Guess what?”
I was chopping vegetables for dinner. The moment I saw his expression, I placed the knife on the counter.
“What did you do?”
Dustin laughed and rolled up his sleeve.
At first, I thought he was showing me a bruise. Then I saw a woman’s face staring back at me from his upper arm.
It was Barbra—his stepmother.
The tattoo captured everything in shocking detail: her eyes, her smile, even the small beauty mark near her mouth.
I gripped the counter.
“Why is Barbra’s face on your shoulder?”
Dustin’s smile faded slightly.
“She’s family.”
“So am I,” I replied. “I don’t see my portrait on your other arm.”
He tried to pull his sleeve down, but the fabric caught against the plastic protecting the fresh tattoo.
“Careful,” I said automatically. “You’ll irritate it.”
That was motherhood. Even when your child did something completely unbelievable, part of you still worried about infection.
I turned off the stove and told him to sit down.
I was not against tattoos. Dustin had discussed getting one for years, and I had expected a band logo, an anime character, or some symbol he might regret later.
A realistic portrait of his stepmother had never been mentioned.
“Was this your idea?” I asked.
“Click here to read the full story”.
