A Mark of Love: How My Son’s Birthmark Changed the Way I See the World

“Mom, why do they always look at me like that?”

The question hit me harder than I expected, right in the middle of the grocery store, my hand frozen on a box of cereal. My son, Ben, was six years old and already so heartbreakingly aware of the way people’s eyes lingered on his face, on the wine-red birthmark that covered his right cheek. I knelt down to meet his gaze, searching for the right words, but all I could manage was a weak smile.

“They’re just curious, honey,” I said, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “They don’t know how special you are yet.”

But Ben didn’t look convinced. He pressed his lips together, his small hands gripping the cart. I wished I could shield him from the world, from the whispers and the double-takes, from the little boys in the park who called him ‘strawberry face’ and the parents who pulled their children away as if his mark might be contagious.

That night, as I tucked him into his superhero bedsheets, he asked me, “Will it ever go away?”

I sat on the edge of his bed, feeling the weight of his sadness pressing down on my chest. “No, sweetie. But it’s part of what makes you, you. And you’re perfect.”

He turned his face away from me. “I wish I looked like everyone else.”

After he fell asleep, I sat in the living room with the lights off, my heart aching. My husband, David, came in quietly, his face grim. “He said something to me at dinner,” he admitted. “Asked if we could wash it off.”

I stared at my hands. “He’s not okay, Dave.”

David rubbed my shoulders, but I could feel his helplessness. “Kids are mean sometimes, but he’ll get through it.”

“But does he have to do it alone?”

That question haunted me. That night, I barely slept. I remembered being a kid, desperate to blend in, terrified of anything that made me different. How could I ask Ben to be brave when I didn’t even know how?

The next morning, as Ben got ready for school, I stood in the bathroom looking at my reflection. I rummaged through my old makeup bag, pulling out red and purple face paint from the last Halloween. My hands trembled as I dabbed the brush, mimicking the shape and color of Ben’s birthmark on my own cheek. I took a deep breath, then called for him.

He stopped in the doorway, his backpack slung over one shoulder. His eyes widened in disbelief. “Mom, what did you do?”

I smiled, trying to keep my voice steady. “I wanted to look like you today.”

He stared at me, silent. Then, slowly, a smile broke over his face, the first real one I’d seen in days. “Can we go like that?”

I nodded. “We sure can.”

At school drop-off, the stares came instantly. Adults glanced at me, looked away, then looked again. Some whispered. A teacher asked if I’d had an accident. I shook my head, holding Ben’s hand tighter. He glanced up at me, pride shining in his eyes. For once, the stares didn’t seem to bother him.

That afternoon, Ben bounced out of his classroom, grinning. “My teacher said we both look beautiful.”

“Because we do,” I said, fighting back tears.

But not everyone was kind. At the park, a mother pulled her daughter away, whispering, “Don’t stare.” Another woman asked if something was wrong with my face. I felt the heat of embarrassment rising, but I forced myself to meet their eyes. “No, I’m just like my son.”

Word spread around the neighborhood. Some people praised me for being ‘brave’ or ‘inspiring.’ Others looked uncomfortable, as if my painted cheek was an act of defiance. My own mother called, her voice tight. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Kate? You’re drawing attention to him.”

“It’s already on him, Mom,” I replied, my patience thinning. “I’d rather he see that it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Ben started asking if I’d paint my cheek every day. Some mornings I hesitated, worried about work Zoom calls or judgment at the grocery store. But every time I saw how it made him stand a little taller, I knew I had no choice.

We went to a birthday party, and one of the boys asked, “Why do you have that thing on your face?”

Ben answered before I could. “Because my mom loves me. And she wants to look like me.”

I blinked back tears. Later, his teacher emailed me: “Ben’s confidence has soared. He’s making new friends, participating more. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

Of course, not everyone understood. David confessed one night, “It’s hard, Kate. You’re putting yourself out there.”

“I know,” I said. “But it’s harder for him. I can take the stares. I’m a grown-up.”

He squeezed my hand. “I’m proud of you. Of both of you.”

Over time, I noticed something shifting—not just in Ben, but in me. I saw the world differently. I noticed the little ways we judge each other, the things we teach our kids without realizing: Don’t stare. Don’t ask questions. Just look away. Maybe, I thought, it’s better to teach them to see, to ask, to accept.

One morning, Ben came into the bathroom as I was painting my cheek. He watched silently, then shook his head. “You don’t have to do it today, Mom. I’m okay.”

I hugged him tight. “I know. But I want to.”

Sometimes I wonder, will there come a day when he doesn’t even notice the stares? When he sees his mark the way I do—a symbol of everything he’s survived, everything that makes him extraordinary?

Looking in the mirror, I often ask myself: How many of us are hiding our own marks, too afraid to show the world who we really are? Would you have the courage to wear your heart on your face, for everyone to see?