This summer was brutal—no breeze, no clouds, just heat that made the sidewalks shimmer. Our daughter Carlie lived in her bathing suit, splashing in her kiddie pool. But Alex, my husband, wore long sleeves. Every. Single. Day.At first, I thought he was self-conscious. Then I noticed the flinches when I touched him, the locked bathroom doors, the quiet trips to his mom’s house. One morning, while making
sandwiches, Carlie casually asked, “Do you know why Daddy is hiding his tattoo from you?”She said it read: “My mommy Angela is my only love forever.” My mother-in-law’s handwriting. The woman who’s spent our entire marriage undermining me.When I confronted Alex, he claimed Angela told him she was dying and begged for “something permanent” to keep her fighting. No proof—just manipulation.
The next day, I visited Angela. She opened the door in silk and gold, smiling. “Oh, I’m perfectly fine. I just needed to remind you—I’ll always be the most important person in his life.”That was the moment I realized—I’d been wearing sleeves over the truth, too.
So I got my own tattoo: “Self-respect, my only love forever.” Now, I wear tank tops. Alex still wears long sleeves.Carlie wants him to cover it with a giraffe named Larry. Maybe he will. But I don’t care anymore. My tattoo isn’t for him—it’s for me. And it’s never coming off.