Whenever something went wrong, you automatically assumed Helen would know what to do.
The tattoo was the only part of her she kept completely private.
Everything else about my mother felt open.
That little blue flower was the one locked door.
Eventually, I decided she had a right to keep one thing to herself.
So I stopped wondering about it.
Mostly.
By the time Mom was sixty-three, I was thirty-two.
We were extremely close.
We talked several times a week about ordinary things.
She worried that I didn’t eat properly.
I worried that she spent too many hours working in her garden.
My father had died six years earlier from a sudden heart attack in his sleep.
Losing him had brought Mom and me even closer.
I helped her sort through paperwork, insurance policies, bank accounts, and all the administrative details that come with losing a spouse after forty years of marriage.
