For 20 years, my husband insisted the woman tattooed over his heart wasn't real. I almost believed him until I found an old photograph hidden in his garage, and the six words on the back sent me searching for someone I was never supposed to meet.
The photograph slipped from beneath a loose panel in Richard's toolbox and landed face-up on the garage floor.
At first, I only noticed the yellowed edges.
Then I saw her.
The photograph slipped from beneath a loose panel.
She was younger than the woman tattooed over Richard's heart, but the eyes were the same.
So was the small rose behind her left ear.
In her arms was a tiny premature baby inside a neonatal unit.
She wasn't looking at the camera. She was looking down at the baby with complete tenderness.
She was younger.
On the back of the photograph, Richard had written six words.
"Forgive me, Rose. She can't know."
***
Twenty years earlier, on our honeymoon, Richard had stepped out of the hotel bathroom with a towel around his waist.
It was the first time I'd ever seen him shirtless long enough to notice the tattoo.
"Forgive me, Rose. She can't know."
A beautiful young woman stared up from his chest.
Her dark hair fell over one shoulder.
The rose behind her ear was no bigger than a thumbnail.
"Who is she?" I asked.
Richard glanced down as though he had forgotten she was there.
"Nobody."
"Who is she?"
"Nobody gets tattooed over your heart, Richie."
He laughed and pulled me close. "She's nobody you know. I had it done years ago."
I trusted him blindly.
I held onto his words through five failed fertility treatments, and I clung to them the afternoon the doctor advised us to stop trying.
I trusted him blindly.
But I truly believed him the morning we brought home a premature baby girl with dark eyes, a stubborn cry, and a cream blanket tucked around her legs.
***
I searched the toolbox again.
Beneath a tray of screws, I found a black address book with a cracked spine.
We brought home a premature baby girl.
