Neon Tattoo-Parlor Sign Highlights a Finger Tracing the “Mom” Tribute Ink as Blurred Family Looks On
It had been seven years since I last saw my mother alive. The day she died, I was sitting in the back of a bus, staring out the window as the rain streaked down, thinking about how much I hated her. I didn’t cry when my sister called. I didn’t even sit down. I just stood there in my tiny apartment’s kitchen, holding the phone to my ear while she told me the cancer had finally taken her. I remember the orange dish towel I had draped over my shoulder, still damp from doing the dishes. I remember the sound of my neighbor’s dog barking through the thin wall. But I don’t remember feeling anything. Not right away.
Growing up, it was just the three of us—me, my mom, and my younger sister, Dani. My dad left when I was five, and we never heard from him again. Mom worked two jobs, sometimes three. She was always tired, always short-tempered, and never really… soft. She didn’t do hugs. She didn’t do bedtime stories. She did bills, and laundry, and yelling when we left our shoes in the hallway. I used to think she didn’t love us.
When I turned eighteen, I left home the very next day. I didn’t go to college like Dani did. I moved in with some guys I worked with at a warehouse and started drinking more than I should’ve. I got my first tattoo six months later—just a skull on my shoulder, nothing meaningful. I didn’t even think about calling Mom. I didn’t think she’d care.
I’d like to say I grew up fast, but I didn’t. I made dumb choices and slept on couches and got fired from more than one job. I stayed away from home. Dani would call sometimes, mostly to ask if I was okay, but I never called her back. I hated the way she still talked about Mom like she was some kind of hero. I didn’t get it. I didn’t want to get it.
When Mom got diagnosed, Dani told me in a voicemail. I didn’t respond. I was living above a bar in a room that smelled like old beer and mildew. I listened to the message three times, then deleted it. She had breast cancer. Stage four. They said it was aggressive. Part of me thought it would be a relief when she was gone. That’s hard to admit now.
I didn’t go to the funeral. Dani didn’t even ask me to. She sent a photo of the service—roses on a closed casket, a blurry shot of our old neighbor Mrs. Fields crying. I looked at it once and then deleted that, too. I told myself I wasn’t part of that family anymore. I had my reasons. My anger made sense to me then.
It wasn’t until a year later, when I was sitting outside a tattoo parlor on a freezing November night, that it hit me. I’d just come out of a shift at the gas station, still wearing my work shirt with the little oil stains on the front. I was smoking a cigarette, watching the neon “INK” sign blink on and off in the window. Something about the way it flickered reminded me of the old lamp we used to have in our living room. The one Mom would click on when she got home late, careful not to wake us. I hadn’t thought about that lamp in years. And just like that, I started crying. Right there on the sidewalk, in front of the tattoo shop. I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe.
The next day, I went inside. I asked for something small, something simple. I didn’t explain. Just said I wanted “Mom” on my forearm, in cursive. I left the shop with a bandage over it, but I kept looking at it through the plastic wrap. I kept thinking about her hands—how rough they were, how they always smelled like bleach and coffee. I remembered how she used to bring home leftover muffins from the diner she worked at, and how she’d leave them on the counter for us to find in the morning. I never said thank you. Not once.
I didn’t talk to Dani for a long time after that. I still didn’t feel ready. But I started thinking about her more. I followed her Instagram, even though she didn’t know. She’d post pictures of her dog, of her work as a teacher, of little crafts her students made. I saw one photo of her at our childhood house, standing in front of the tree we used to climb. I stared at that one for a long time.
About six months ago, I finally reached out. I didn’t know what to say, so I just sent her a photo of the tattoo. No caption. Just my arm, with the word “Mom” in black ink, right above the crease of my elbow. She didn’t reply right away. Then, later that night, just a heart emoji. That was it. But it was enough.
Last week, Dani invited me to her house for dinner. I hadn’t seen her in over a decade. I almost didn’t go. I stood outside her place for a solid ten minutes before I rang the bell. When she opened the door, she didn’t look surprised. Just tired and kind of nervous. Her husband was there, and their little boy—my nephew, who I’d never met. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stood there until she pulled me into a hug. For a second, I thought about pulling away. But I didn’t.
We sat down to eat spaghetti at a table covered in a plastic tablecloth with cartoon characters on it. Her son kept looking at my tattoos, asking if they hurt. I laughed and said not really. Then he pointed to the “Mom” tattoo and asked who it was for. I didn’t answer at first. I just touched it with my finger, tracing the shape of the word. Dani watched me, her eyes a little red. I told him it was for someone important. That was all I said.
After dinner, Dani showed me some of Mom’s old things. A recipe book with notes in the margins, a locket with our baby pictures inside, and a birthday card I made her when I was ten. I didn’t remember making it, but when I saw the handwriting, I knew it was mine. It said “To the best mom in the world.” I don’t know why I wrote that. Maybe I meant it then. Maybe I was just trying to get on her good side. Either way, it broke something open in me.
I stayed the night on their couch. In the morning, Dani made coffee and handed me a mug that said “World’s Okayest Brother.” We both laughed quietly. It felt good. It felt like the start of something.
I still don’t know if I’ve forgiven Mom completely. There’s a lot I’ll never understand. But I’ve started to see things in a different light. She was doing the best she could, and maybe that wasn’t enough all the time, but she never gave up on us. I think about that now every time I look at the ink on my arm. It’s not just a tribute. It’s a reminder to see people for who they are, not just what they failed to be.
I lost a lot of time being angry. But I’m trying to make something good with what’s left. I have a family again, even if it’s smaller than it used to be. And when my nephew asks again who the tattoo is for, I think next time I’ll tell him the truth.
