And when I finally met the woman whose face had been resting over my husband’s heart for two decades, I discovered that the tattoo was connected to a secret far bigger—and far more complicated—than an old romance.
It was connected to our daughter.
I first noticed the tattoo on our honeymoon.
Richard and I had been married only a few days, still in that strange, happy period when everything about each other felt new.
One evening, he took off his shirt, and I saw her clearly for the first time.
A beautiful young woman was tattooed across his chest.
She had dark eyes, delicate features, and a tiny rose tucked behind one ear.
I stared at her.
“Who is she?”
Richard laughed.
He pulled me closer and kissed my forehead.
“Nobody, Evelyn.”
“Nobody?”
“Just a face the tattoo artist invented when I was nineteen.”
I looked at the woman’s face again.
There was something strangely lifelike about her.
The eyes seemed almost too intentional.
The little rose behind her ear seemed like a detail someone would add only if they knew the person.
But Richard was laughing.
So I let it go.
