She gently pulled Mom’s sleeve back down over the tattoo. “I’ll be back in a moment,” she said.
Her voice sounded controlled, but tense.
“I need to check something.”
Then she walked out.
Mom and I looked at each other.
“That was strange,” I said.
“Yes.”
Mom’s voice remained calm.
Her hands didn’t.
She had clasped them tightly in her lap.
“Do you know what that was about?”
Mom looked down at her covered wrist.
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
But I knew my mother.
She didn’t think it was nothing.
Something in her expression told me she had been dreading this moment for a very long time.
Five minutes went by.
Patricia still hadn’t returned.
Then I noticed two hospital security officers standing outside the room.
They weren’t rushing.
They spoke quietly while occasionally looking through the doorway.
My stomach tightened.
“Mom.”
“I see them,” she whispered.
The door opened.
A physician entered alongside the two officers.
He was probably in his fifties, with gray hair and the calm authority of someone senior.
He wasn’t Mom’s surgeon.
He introduced himself as Dr. Reeves.
But he wasn’t looking at my mother’s face.
He was focused on her wrist.
“Ma’am,” he said carefully, “where did you get that symbol?”
Symbol.
Not tattoo.
Symbol.
My mother went completely pale.
That was when I realized this wasn’t some misunderstanding.
Mom said nothing.
“Mom?” I asked. “What is happening?”
She looked at me.
For the first time in my life, I saw genuine fear in her eyes.
Then she looked down at her wrist.
“I knew this day would come,” she whispered.
Dr. Reeves pulled a chair closer and sat in front of her.
He motioned for security to stay near the door.
“Helen,” he said gently, “I want to explain why everyone is here. I know this must be frightening.”
Mom nodded.
“The flower on your wrist is not simply decorative.”
I stared at him.
