That was my mother.
She loved me loud.
My mother-in-law knew the story.
She still called the tattoo dirty.
She suggested replacing it with something tasteful.
And whenever I wore a sleeveless shirt, her eyes went straight to my shoulder.
When we first started dating, my husband, Jake, actually defended me.
“That’s her mother,” he’d told her once. “Show some respect.”
I’d never forgotten that.
But after we married, his approach changed.
Once, after his mother made me cry at dinner, he suggested wearing sleeves to family gatherings.
“Just until she settles down,” he said.
I thought he was trying to protect me.
I was wrong.
Jake was 43.
I was 31.
We’d been together six years and married for three.
His mother had never approved of the age difference.
My tattoos.
Or the neon hair I wore when we met.
But about a year after we married, I stopped dyeing it.
