One night, my dad and I were having dinner — just the two of us — and out of the blue he asks, “You don’t have a tattoo, do you?” I didn’t even hesitate as I pulled up the sleeve of my shirt, started crying, and said yes. He looked as if he had seen a ghost. But, the spontaneous tears definitely played to my advantage.

He knew the sentimental value behind the word and, to my complete and utter astonishment, he loved it. Really, he couldn’t get enough, and stared at it for quite some time. He even went so far as to take a picture and post it on his Instagram (despite me asking him not to because my mom didn’t yet know. Since they've divorced, they don’t follow each other). He captioned the post: “Spending a rare weekend with the amazing, strong, and wonderful Sponge.”

“But no more tattoos, okay?” he said to me later that night.

A few months after, my mom found out in a similar fashion. I was showing her a picture on my phone and, for some reason, she thought she saw a tattoo on my ankle in the photo. She promptly asked me, in horror, if I had one. In this case, too, I hadn’t planned on rocking the boat and divulging my secret. I responded: “No, mom! Of course that’s not a tattoo on my ankle!...But I do have one.”

I showed it to her right away, and she started crying. She read it out loud and immediately understood the emotional weight and value this one small word carried. But, she wasn’t quite as accepting as my dad. She covered her face with her hands as she swayed back and forth between panic, disbelief, and loving approval. She knew just as well as I do that my brother would have loved it more than anything in the world.

To this day, my parents check my arm every time they see me, as if to make sure it’s still there. Maybe they're hoping it's temporary; maybe they've come to adore it as much as I do. Or maybe it's a comforting physical reminder of the loving son and brother who was taken from us too soon — but whose memory will live on forever.