At first, I saw nothing. Just skin, the edge of his collar, a bit of graying hair he’d been letting grow longer these last few months.
Then a spotlight swung, catching him at a new angle, and I saw it.
A small tattoo, still faintly pink at the edges. A compass rose, no bigger than a dime, tucked behind his earlobe.
My knees softened.
Mike had that exact tattoo in the same place! The same tiny compass rose he’d gotten at 19 on a road trip with his best friend.
My husband used to laugh about how nobody ever noticed it. But Mia had. A thousand times, riding on his shoulders, her little fingers tracing that mark as if it were a secret only she knew.
To a four-year-old who missed her daddy, that tattoo wasn’t a symbol. It was him!
“Oh my God, how is this even possible?” I screamed unintentionally.
Harold turned sharply. His eyes found mine, and something in his face collapsed.
“Alison? You okay?”
“I, um… I just remembered I told the sitter I’d call. I should go.”
“You don’t have a sitter tonight.”
“I meant my friend. I’m sorry, I have to…”
