Tattoos are like daddy issues, they don't go away.

A man was once so in love with me that he tattooed my name on his bicep.

Tattoos were a sore subject in our house. Despite being more progressive than any of my friends' parents, my mother was vehemently against us getting tattoos. At twenty-six, I went behind her back and got inked for the first—and only—time. When you grow up with a Rory and Lorelai relationship, there are rarely any secrets, so I was naturally riddled with guilt from all the lying.

Right before I left the house, my mom dropped a bombshell. “Your dad had another kid. At fifty-one years old. Isn’t that nuts?” Suddenly, I felt myself shrinking while the world around me grew. After marrying seven times over thirty years, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. Up until then, my sister and I were his only children.

My dainty, Sagittarian-inspired tattoo took seven whole minutes, but I was sweating through my pants from the adrenaline rush. Remind me again how people get addicted to tattoos. With summer approaching and guilt gnawing at me, I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep my forearm hidden for long. I broke the news. My mom sobbed.

Seven years later, I still haven’t met my baby sister. But I’m prepared for her curiosity to lead her to me one day. Will I be a shoulder to cry on when he breaks her heart the same way he broke ours? I’ve been heartbroken all my life.

My father was adopted, and he cared so much about finding his birth parents that he didn’t have room in his heart for his biological children. The day I was born was the first time he met a living blood relative—and he still let me go. I could only fill the void for so long. Consumed by his selfish pursuits, he probably never thought about how I shared the same curiosity, one half of my lineage still unknown. And now, repeating history, his youngest child isn’t adopted, but she might still yearn for the family she never met.

For now, we’ll sit together in spirit–three tattoos on the bicep of a sad man.