Some stories live forever — etched not only in memory but in ink.
Six months before she passed away from cancer, my mom got her very first tattoo. She was 48. It was supposed to be a shared moment — a mother-daughter bond marked in ink. I was going to get my butterfly on the same ankle, side by side with hers.
But life doesn’t always wait for perfect timing. She died before we could do it together.
Butterflies meant something special to her. While she was sick, she would often say, “I’ll be a butterfly one day.” That image — soft, strong, fleeting yet free — stuck with me. It comforted me. It still does.
Recently, I finally got the butterfly tattoo we were supposed to get together. I went to the same artist who had the privilege of inking my mom. The same ankle, the same spirit, a continuation of what we started.
I added “1974” — the year I was born. It’s more than a date. It’s also the birth year of Scott (my husband), another thread of significance woven into this moment.
This isn’t just ink. It’s healing. It’s memory. It’s connection.
Through this tattoo, I walk with her.
And every step feels a little closer to her wings.
Widow 101 