Then a spotlight moved, catching him from another angle, and I saw it.
Suddenly, my eyes drifted up.
A tiny tattoo, still slightly pink around the edges. A compass rose, no larger than a dime, tucked behind his earlobe.
My knees went soft.
Mike had that exact tattoo in the exact same place! The same tiny compass rose he’d gotten at 19 during a road trip with his best friend.
My husband used to joke about how nobody ever noticed it. But Mia had. A thousand times, riding on his shoulders, her tiny fingers tracing that mark as though it were a secret only she understood.
Mike had that exact tattoo!
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 without meaning to.
Harold turned abruptly. His eyes met mine, and something in his expression crumbled.
