The triplets walked up to a single father and innocently said, “Hello, sir, OUR MOTHER HAS A TATTOO EXACTLY LIKE YOURS.” He froze on the spot, because the broken compass inked on his arm was tied to a night he had spent years trying to forget. Suddenly, a secret he thought was buried forever came rushing back.
“My mom has a tattoo exactly like yours.”
The words hit me so hard that for a moment I forgot how to breathe. I was sitting on an old bench in Central Park, nursing a cup of cheap coffee after a long morning at work, when three identical little girls suddenly stopped in front of me and stared at the faded compass tattoo on my arm.
