That birthmark between my thumb and forefinger had always made him laugh. "It's shaped like a butt!" he always said, touching that coffee and milk skin of my fingers, then squeezing my hand. My mother who had always told me that it was a beautiful birthmark of a heart, that on a little girl's hand it was beautiful. Then he came and destroyed twenty-five years of belief. So in the end, I went from having a heart to having a butt drawn on the hand.
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