PART 2
And by midnight, I had booked a twelve-day guided trip through Germany, Austria, and Switzerland.
Departure date:
Two days before Christmas Eve.
I told nobody.
Not Ryan.
Not Vanessa.
No one.
On the morning of my flight, while I was sitting at the gate, a message from Ryan appeared.
Mom, merry early Christmas! We’ll stop by after the holidays.
I stared at it for a moment.
Then typed:
Thanks, honey. Have a wonderful Christmas.
I switched my phone to airplane mode.
And boarded the plane.
My seatmate on the flight to Frankfurt was a sixty-nine-year-old retired attorney named Patricia from Austin.
She was lively, sharp, and had the kind of confidence that made strangers want to tell her things.
“Traveling alone?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“First time?”
“First time since my husband died.”
She studied me.
“So why now?”
I don’t know what made me tell a complete stranger the truth.
But I did.
“My daughter-in-law told me Christmas would be easier if I stayed home.”
Patricia raised both eyebrows.
“And your response was to fly to Europe?”
I smiled.
“Apparently.”
She laughed.
“Well, Teresa, your daughter-in-law may have accidentally done you the greatest favor of your life.”
At the time, I thought she was simply trying to make me feel better.
I had no idea how accurate she was.
The first few days passed in a blur.
Christmas markets glowing under strings of lights.
Snow-covered rooftops.
Old cathedrals.
Tiny alpine villages.
Cobblestone streets.
Hot drinks held between cold hands.
And everywhere I went, nobody knew who I was.
Nobody knew me as Arthur’s widow.
Nobody knew me as Ryan’s mother.
Nobody expected me to babysit.
Nobody asked me to cook.
Nobody needed anything from me.
For the first time in years, I was simply Teresa.
And I had forgotten how good that felt.
In Salzburg, another traveler joined our group.
His name was George.
He was sixty-six, a retired history professor from Virginia, and had lost his wife six years earlier.
During dinner one night, he told us how he had accidentally destroyed the rose garden his wife had carefully maintained for decades.
“She used to say I possessed a rare gift,” he told us solemnly.
“What gift?”
“The ability to turn any garden into a parking lot.”
I laughed so hard I cried.
Not polite laughter.
Real laughter.
The kind that makes your stomach hurt.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had laughed that freely.
By the seventh day, our group had reached Lucerne.
Patricia took a photo of George and me leaning against the railing of an old wooden bridge.
We were laughing.
Our cheeks were red from the cold.
I wasn’t posing.
I wasn’t thinking about whether I looked old.
I wasn’t thinking about what anyone would say.
I simply looked happy.
Without thinking much about it, I posted the picture online.
It was my first social media post in years.
Two hours later, my phone practically exploded.
Neighbors.
Friends.
Relatives.
People from church.
Everybody wanted to know the same thing.
Who is the man standing beside you?!
Then Ryan called.
I answered.
He didn’t say hello.
He didn’t ask how my Christmas had been.
His first words were:
“Mom… who in the world is that guy?”
“His name is George.”
“George who?”
I almost laughed.
“George the retired history professor.”
“Since when do you know a retired history professor?”
“Since a few days ago.”
There was a long silence.
Then Ryan said,
“Mom… are you in Switzerland?”
“Yes.”
“With some man you just met?”
“I’m also with Patricia, twenty-one other tourists, and a professional guide, Ryan. I haven’t joined an international crime syndicate.”
He sighed.
“I didn’t even know you were leaving the country.”
“That’s because I didn’t tell you.”
“Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
I looked out my hotel window at the snowy roofs of Lucerne.
“Because I didn’t want a lecture about whether a sixty-seven-year-old woman should be allowed to travel alone.”
Ryan went quiet.
Then his voice softened.
“Are you okay?”
I smiled.
“I’m better than I’ve been in years.”
Another pause.
Then he said something I wasn’t expecting.
“You look different in that picture.”
“Older?”
“Mom.”
“I’m joking.”
“No, you look…”
He hesitated.
“Happy.”
That word landed differently.
Because he was right.
“I am happy.”
Ryan was silent for several seconds.
Then he said,
“Mom, what happened with Christmas wasn’t right.”
I waited.
“I should have said something when Vanessa decided it would be easier if you stayed home.”
“Yes,” I said. “You should have.”
I didn’t rush to forgive him.
I didn’t tell him it was fine.
Because it hadn’t been fine.
“I’m sorry.”
“I love you, Ryan. But loving you doesn’t mean pretending you didn’t hurt me.”
“I know.”
“And it doesn’t mean I’m going to spend the rest of my life sitting at home waiting for someone to decide there’s room for me.”
His voice became cautious.
“What exactly does that mean?”
“It means I’m going to start living my own life.”
After we ended the call, I met Patricia downstairs for coffee.
I told her what had happened.
She stirred her espresso.
“So what happens when you go home?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you go back to exactly the way things were?”
The question made me uncomfortable.
Because if I was being honest, that had been my original plan.
I had viewed Europe as a temporary escape.
A small rebellion.
Then I would return home.
Bake pies.
Babysit.
Wait.
Say, “Of course, it’s no trouble,” whenever someone needed something.
“I don’t want to go back to that,” I admitted.
Patricia smiled.
“I started my second chapter at sixty-eight.”
“Second chapter?”
“My life.”
She told me that after her own husband died, she had spent years doing exactly what I had done.
Waiting for her adult children to call.
Waiting to be included.
Waiting for life to happen around her.
Until one day, she became tired of waiting.
She took an art class.
Made new friends.
Started traveling.
Even learned Italian.
“Italian?”
She grinned.
“Terrible Italian. But technically still Italian.”
Then she pulled out her phone.
“I’m booking another trip this spring.”
“Where?”
“Scotland.”
I stared at her.
Arthur’s grandparents had come from Scotland generations earlier.
He had always dreamed of visiting.
But we never did.
There was always work.
Bills.
House repairs.
Children.
Responsibilities.
There was always some reason to postpone it.
Patricia smiled at me.
“Come with me.”
This time, I didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
She blinked.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
We booked the April tour that evening.
And when I entered my credit card information, my hands didn’t shake at all.
But I knew I still had one difficult thing ahead of me.
Eventually, I had to go home.
