I rolled my eyes and let it go.
Eventually, I stopped asking.
My mother’s name was Helen.
She was the kind of woman everybody depended on.
If someone in the neighborhood was sick, she organized meals.
If someone forgot a birthday, Helen remembered.
If somebody needed help, she arrived with food, practical advice, and enough patience to listen for as long as necessary.
She had worked as a nurse for most of her adult life.
Even after retiring, she carried herself with that same calm competence.
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.
