When my son came home with his stepmother's face tattooed on his arm, I thought the tattoo was the problem. Then I learned what his father had promised him in return.
You never hear good news after your son says, "Hey, Mom, guess what?" two days after turning 18.
I was standing at the kitchen counter, slicing peppers for dinner, when Dustin walked in wearing the grin he usually saved for bad decisions.
I set down the knife.
"What did you do?"
"Why do you always assume I did something?"
"Because you look proud of yourself."
He laughed, then rolled up the sleeve of his T-shirt.
For one confused second, I thought he was showing me a bruise.
Then I saw the face staring back at me from his upper arm.
Barbra.
My ex-husband's wife had been tattooed across my son's shoulder in startling detail. Her eyes, her smile, even the small beauty mark beside her mouth had been recreated in black and gray ink.
I gripped the counter.
"Dustin."
"Pretty good, right?"
I stared at him.
"Why is Barbra's face on your body?"
His smile weakened.
"She's family."
"So am I. I don't see my face on your other arm."
He tugged his sleeve down, but the fresh plastic covering the tattoo caught against the fabric.
"Careful," I said automatically. "You'll irritate it."
That was motherhood.
Even when your child did something completely insane, part of you still worried about infection.
I turned off the stove.
"Sit down."
"Mom, don't make this a huge thing."
"You permanently tattooed your stepmother's face onto your shoulder. It arrived huge."
He dropped into a chair at the kitchen table.
I sat across from him and tried to keep my voice calm.
Don't get me wrong. I was not against tattoos.
Dustin had talked about getting one for years. I had expected an anime character, a band logo, or some symbol he would regret by 25.
We had even discussed waiting until he found a design that meant something to him.
Barbra's portrait had never entered the conversation.
"Whose idea was it?" I asked.
"Mine."
The answer came too quickly.
I knew my son. Dustin could barely choose pizza toppings without asking three people for opinions. He had not spontaneously selected a realistic portrait of a woman he rarely mentioned.
"Try again."
His eyes moved toward the window.
"I wanted to do something nice."
"For Barbra?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He shrugged.
"She's done a lot for me."
That was not entirely false.
Dustin spent half the week at Stephen's house. Barbra cooked, showed up for school events, and cared about him. We weren't friends, but I'd never denied that.
Still, Dustin was not sentimental.
He had forgotten my birthday twice.
Last Christmas, he gave Stephen a gift card still inside the grocery store envelope.
He did not express affection through permanent portraits.
"How much did it cost?" I asked.
His fingers began tapping the table.
"I don't know."
"You sat for several hours while someone put it on your arm, but you don't know the price?"
"I didn't pay."
My stomach tightened.
"Who did?"
He looked down.
"Dad."
I leaned back slowly.
Stephen once complained for three days because Dustin needed 80 dollars for a school trip. The idea that he had happily spent hundreds on a tattoo made no sense.
"How much did your father pay?"
"About five hundred."
"Stephen paid five hundred dollars to put his wife's face on your arm?"
"When you say it like that, it sounds weird."
"It is weird."
Dustin rubbed the edge of the plastic covering.
"Barbra's been having a hard time."
"With what?"
He hesitated.
"She doesn't feel like we're a real family."
I frowned.
"What does your shoulder have to do with their marriage?"
"Dad said she feels left out. She thinks we still act like she's temporary."
"They've been married four years."
"I know."
"And Stephen thought a tattoo would fix that?"
Dustin's silence answered me.
I pushed my chair back and stood.
"This was your father's idea."
"He didn't force me."
"That wasn't my question."
Dustin exhaled.
"Dad brought it up."
