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.
They looked no older than seven. Dressed in matching beige coats with perfect hair bows and polished shoes, they seemed completely out of place among the noisy playground crowds. Yet what caught my attention wasn’t their appearance. It was the way they looked at me, calm, observant, and strangely certain.
“What did you say?” I asked.
