The summer heat was brutal, but my husband, Tom, stuck to long sleeves, avoiding my touch and acting cagey. When our five-year-old, Mia, let slip his shocking secret, I uncovered a truth that forced me to reclaim my own worth.
That summer was a scorcher. The air felt like fire, and our house was unbearable, even with fans blasting. Mia ran around in her swimsuit, splashing in her kiddie pool, while I ditched heavy bedding for light sheets. But Tom? He wore long sleeves everywhere—home, the store, even in the blazing sun. It was weird, and I couldn’t shake the feeling something was off.
I thought maybe Tom was insecure about his looks. He’d always been reserved, but now he’d flinch if I brushed his arm and change clothes behind locked doors. “Just comfy this way, Sarah,” he’d say, dodging my questions. One night, I caught him on the phone in the bathroom. “I’ll tell Sarah soon, Mom,” he whispered, sounding stressed. “I need a little time.” My stomach knotted—what was he keeping from me?
Tom started pulling away. He stopped reading to Mia at night, left dishes scattered, and hadn’t hugged me in weeks. He was always at his mom Linda’s, claiming she needed help with chores. I bought it at first—Linda loved attention—but it felt like too much. While making grilled cheese with Mia, she was drawing us as a family, adding a heart to Tom’s arm. “Mommy, why’s Daddy hiding his tattoo?” she asked, laughing.
I stopped cold. “What tattoo, Mia?” She grinned mischievously. “I saw it! It says ‘My mom Linda is my forever love.’ Like Grandma’s letters!” My heart sank. Linda, who sneered at my wedding dress and sulked when we set boundaries? A tattoo for her? I hoped Mia was making it up, but Tom’s secrecy—long sleeves, locked doors—clicked into place.
That night, I made burgers and watched Tom carefully, his sleeves hiding his arms. After Mia slept, I asked, “Tom, what’s on your arm?” His face paled. “Mia saw it,” he admitted, explaining Linda told him she was dying and wanted a tattoo in her handwriting as a “last wish.” He did it to comfort her, never questioning her health. I was floored. “You didn’t check? You tattooed her name on you?”
He showed me: “My mom Linda is my forever love,” in her script, on sore, red skin. I visited Linda the next day with a fruit basket, acting concerned. She answered, looking fit, in a bright dress. “I’m fine,” she said with a sly grin. “Just wanted Tom to know who’s number one.” Her words stung. I drove home, dazed, Mia’s crayons rattling in the back.
That night, I watched Tom sleep, his sleeve revealing the tattoo. I’d built our family, loved him through everything, and he’d let Linda manipulate him. Mia’s drawing of Tom with a heart on his arm sat on her nightstand, innocent but painful. I decided to take control. I got a tattoo: “My heart, my only love,” on my shoulder, a reminder of my strength. Tom saw it and asked if I’d regret it. “Nope,” I said. He mumbled about covering his with a dragon for Mia, admitting Linda lied.
Weeks later, I wear my tattoo boldly. Tom’s still in long sleeves, wrestling with Linda’s control. Mia wants a dinosaur for his cover-up, calling it “Rex.” I smile at my ink in the mirror, knowing I chose myself, ready for whatever’s next.
