I remember looking at the tattoo on his chest that day.
The mysterious woman was still there.
The dark eyes.
The delicate features.
The tiny rose behind her ear.
But by then, the tattoo had become so familiar that I barely noticed it anymore.
It was simply part of Richard.
Part of our marriage.
Part of the man I thought I knew.
Until last month.
I was looking through Richard’s old toolbox because I needed an insurance document.
It was one of those ordinary household moments that should have meant absolutely nothing.
I wasn’t searching for a secret.
I wasn’t suspicious.
I wasn’t looking for evidence of anything.
I was looking for paperwork.
Then I noticed something strange.
One of the wooden panels inside the cabinet was loose.
I pulled it back.
Something was hidden underneath.
A photograph.
It was yellowed with age, the edges worn from being handled.
I picked it up.
And the second I saw the woman’s face, my entire body went cold.
Those eyes.
I knew those eyes.
I had been looking at them on my husband’s chest for twenty years.
The same delicate features.
The same tiny rose tucked behind her ear.
Exactly the same.
My hands began to shake.
Then I noticed what she was holding.
A newborn baby.
Wrapped tightly in a blanket.
I stared at the photograph.
Something about that blanket looked familiar.
Too familiar.
I turned it closer toward the light.
My heart began pounding.
It was Claire’s coming-home blanket.
The exact blanket we had wrapped around our daughter the day we brought her home.
I flipped the photograph over.
