My mother-in-law knew exactly why I would never remove the tattoo on my shoulder. So when she handed me a $500 gift certificate for laser removal at my birthday dinner, I thought she had finally crossed the line. Then my husband opened his mouth, and suddenly, the gift was the least of my worries.
“That’s my mother,” I told my mother-in-law.
She shrugged.
“I know. But it’s still a badly done tattoo.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
The woman on my shoulder was my mother.
She died when I was a teenager.
And when I turned 18, I saved every dollar I could to have her portrait tattooed there.
It wasn’t perfect.
I couldn’t afford a better artist.
But the picture came from one of my favorite days with her.
She’d helped me dye my hair bright pink.
Laughing when I stained the bathroom sink.
“Well,” she’d said, holding up a mirror, “at least nobody will mistake you for anyone else.”
