PART 1: THE PORTRAIT ON HIS ARM

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.

“Yes.”

The answer came too quickly.

Dustin could barely choose pizza toppings without asking for opinions. He had not suddenly decided to permanently place Barbra’s face on his body.

“How much did it cost?”

“I don’t know.”

“You sat there for hours, but you don’t know the price?”

He looked down.

“I didn’t pay for it.”

My stomach tightened.

“Who did?”

“Dad.”

Stephen, my ex-husband, once complained for days about paying eighty dollars for a school trip. Yet he had spent nearly five hundred dollars on this tattoo.