The tattoo I had traced hundreds of times as a child.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.
She looked at me.
“Mom, look at me. I’m not going anywhere.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
And I did.
That had never been the question.
Thirty-two years of being loved couldn’t be erased by one revelation.
I was shocked.
I was hurt that she had kept something so important from me.
But I never doubted she was my mother.
Dr. Reeves gave us some time alone.
For nearly twenty minutes, we barely spoke.
We simply held hands.
Eventually, Mom said:
“You know, I rehearsed the conversation for years.”
I looked at her.
“When you were little, I planned exactly what I would say. I decided I’d tell you when you turned ten.”
