Brad glanced down.
“Creative choice, sweetheart.”
“Whose creative choice?”
His smile faded slightly.
He pulled his sleeve lower.
“Old history.”
His answer sounded playful.
The movement didn’t.
A few minutes later, we were getting ready to leave for the park.
Brad wore jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and lightweight gloves because some of his tattoos extended onto his hands.
The weather was warm enough that none of it made sense.
But that was normal for Brad.
Inside our house, he never bothered hiding the tattoos.
Our three children had seen every design.
Outside, nobody did.
“But I like your pictures,” Molly complained.
Brad opened the door.
“You have terrible artistic judgment.”
She giggled.
Years earlier, I had asked him why he covered himself so carefully.
“I got them when I was young,” he had told me. “I regret them.”
When I suggested laser removal, Brad always said it was too expensive.
