Brad wore thin gloves even during summer.
At home, our children knew every tattoo covering his hands and arms. They traced the flowers, skulls, crooked lines, and strange little shapes as if they were pages in a picture book.
Outside the house, however, Brad kept every inch covered.
He always said the tattoos were mistakes from when he was younger.
I believed him.
Then one afternoon, our daughter Molly fell into a muddy puddle. Brad gave her his shirt, exposing his arms in public for the first time since I had known him.
A few minutes later, inside a store, a woman saw one particular tattoo on his forearm.
The carton in her hands slipped to the floor.
And when she whispered Brad’s name, I realized my husband had been hiding much more than ink.
“Why is this flower petal so big?”
Molly’s finger moved carefully across the crooked sunflower tattooed on Brad’s forearm.
