My husband Martin’s wineglass stopped halfway to his mouth when Marcus removed his leather jacket. Beneath the dark sleeve was a detailed tattoo of a woman with dark hair, strong cheekbones, and unmistakable eyes. Martin stared at it as though he had suddenly recognized something buried deep in his past. Our daughter Julia, newly home from London with an engagement ring, noticed his reaction immediately.

Martin finally asked who the woman was. Marcus calmly answered that she was his mother, Elaine. The name seemed to drain the remaining color from Martin’s face. After dinner, while Julia and I stood quietly in the kitchen, we heard Martin ask Marcus a question from the living room. “Elaine Marsh,” he said softly. “Was that her name before she was married?” I stopped drying the dish in my hands. Julia looked at me, realizing that something much bigger than a tattoo had just been uncovered.