Inside was a photograph of the Trevi Fountain torn from a travel magazine. A handwritten list: Rome. Florence. Paris. Barcelona.
At twenty-three, I had promised myself I would see all four. Someday.
Someday became after the children were older. Then after Dorothy recovered from knee surgery. Then after Ryan’s travel baseball years. Then after one particularly expensive Christmas. Three times, I had almost booked Europe. Three times, I postponed it because somebody else’s life seemed more urgent.
I sat on the bed. Opened my personal savings account. Then searched flights. Raleigh to Rome. Rome to Florence by train. Paris. Barcelona. Twenty-eight days. I had enough vacation time because I almost never used it. Enough personal savings because I had spent years being careful. The flight left that evening.
My finger hovered over PURCHASE. A voice in my head said: This is ridiculous. Another said: Your husband just flew to Maui without you.
I bought the ticket.
By evening, I was sitting at the airport with a boarding pass in my purse. My phone buzzed. Dorothy had posted a photograph. Michael beside her. Lisa smiling. Ryan and Emma in front. Palm trees and blue water behind them. Caption: Nothing matters more than family.
I looked at those words. Then the gate agent announced boarding for Rome. I picked up the suitcase Michael had told me I did not need. And walked toward the plane.
Rome was loud. That was the first thing I loved about it. Scooters. Church bells. Coffee cups against saucers. People talking with their hands. Delivery vans attempting turns through streets that looked designed for bicycles. Nobody knew my name. Nobody needed me to remember medication. Nobody asked whether Ryan had completed a financial-aid form or whether Dorothy’s grocery delivery arrived.
My hotel room was small, with pale walls and windows overlooking a street barely wide enough for two compact cars. I slept nine hours.
The next morning, I found a café around the corner. I ordered coffee badly. The woman behind the counter corrected my pronunciation without mercy. I thanked her. Then I sat beside the window and watched strangers live lives that had nothing to do with mine. Silence felt different there. At home, silence often meant I was mentally reviewing what I had forgotten. In Rome, it meant nothing was required of me.
Meanwhile, Hawaii had begun teaching my family arithmetic. I learned the details later.
Dorothy’s birthday dinner took place at the oceanfront restaurant I had selected. Twelve weeks earlier, I had looked through menus and reviews because Dorothy had once mentioned wanting a table close enough to hear the water. She got exactly that. Michael ordered generously. Lisa had seafood. Dorothy ordered wine. Emma and Ryan shared dessert.
Then the bill came. Michael placed my travel card in the leather folder.
The server returned several minutes later. “I’m sorry, sir. This card didn’t go through.”
Michael smiled. “Travel flag. Try it once more.”
She did. Declined.
The old Michael would have looked toward me. I would have opened the banking app. Fixed whatever needed fixing. But I was six thousand miles away eating pasta.
Michael pulled out a personal card. It had already absorbed part of the hotel deposit and several airfare charges. Not enough available credit for the full dinner.
Dorothy reached for her purse. “I’ll pay.”
“No, Mom.”
“It’s my birthday.”
“That isn’t the point.”