I thought about that tattoo throughout the rest of my workday. I wondered about her sister, how she had died, and what brought Audrey in, years later, to have the butterfly done for herself. I regretted not asking her in the hours she'd spent in my chair. I'd been too self-absorbed in my own shame for jumping to conclusions based solely on her physical appearance. I hated so much when people did that to me, so why did I think it was okay to treat her in that manner?
