Three little girls in Central Park recognized the tattoo on my arm—when they said their last name, a seven-year secret I was never meant to uncover came to light

I looked down at the broken compass on my arm.

For years I’d thought it marked the night I lost my direction.

Now I wondered if it had been pointing me here the whole time.

“I can’t get those seven years back,” I said. “But I can be here for the next seven. And the seven after that.”

Savannah wiped her cheek quickly.

“They already love you.”

I looked at continue reading …