The airport was quieter than I expected when Karen arrived. She had one suitcase, a small backpack, and the nervous expression of someone who had agreed to do something before fully understanding what it meant. I recognized that look because I had worn it myself when I first bought my ticket.
She hugged me tightly and then stepped back. “I still can't believe I'm doing this.”
“You don't have to believe it yet,” I said. “Just get on the plane.”
Karen laughed, but her eyes were wet. “That's your advice now?”
“It seems to be working.”
We walked toward the departure gates together. For once, neither of us was carrying a list of things we needed to do for someone else. There were no school pickups, no doctor's appointments, no grocery lists, no reminders about birthdays, no emergency phone calls waiting to interrupt us. There were simply two women with suitcases and nowhere they absolutely had to be.
Our flight to Italy was long enough for the excitement to fade into exhaustion. Karen slept for several hours with her head against the window. I stayed awake, watching clouds move beneath us and thinking about Robert. Twelve years had passed since I had last sat beside him on a plane, and suddenly I remembered how he always complained that airplane food was proof that civilization had given up.
I smiled.
Karen opened one eye. “What?”
“Your father.”
“What did he do?”
“I was just remembering how much he hated airplane food.”
She laughed softly. “He used to complain about everything on planes.”
“He did.”
“But he loved going places.”
“He did.”
Neither of us spoke for a while. Then Karen reached across the space between our seats and squeezed my hand.
“I wish I had asked him more questions,” she whispered.
“So do I.”
When we arrived in Italy, the air felt warmer than the airport in Melbourne and completely different from Japan. Karen wanted to see everything immediately. She pointed at buildings, signs, narrow streets, old stone walls, and every tiny café as if she had discovered them herself.
I let her.
For years, I had been the one telling everyone to slow down, be careful, remember the schedule. Now I found myself following my daughter while she stopped every few minutes to look at something beautiful.
Our first evening was simple. We walked until our feet hurt, ate dinner at a little restaurant, and sat outside afterward while people passed along the street. Karen told me stories about her childhood that I had heard before, but somehow they sounded different now.
“I used to think you were always confident,” she said.
I nearly laughed.
“Me?”
“Yes. When I was little, I thought you knew exactly what you were doing.”
“I was pretending.”
Karen stared at me. “You were?”
“Most mothers are.”
She looked down at the table. “I wish you had told me that.”
“I didn't know I was allowed to.”
That answer stayed between us.
The next morning, we returned to the hotel where Robert had once reserved a room for me. Karen had seen the place only through my photographs, and I expected her to be disappointed by how ordinary it looked. Instead, she stood in the hallway for several minutes, studying the old walls.
“This is where Dad planned all this?”
“I think so.”
“What exactly was he planning?”
“I don't know anymore.”
The words surprised me. For months I had followed Robert's clues as though each one would eventually reveal a final explanation. But standing there with Karen, I realized the clues might never form a neat answer.
The hotel receptionist recognized my name. She remembered me from my earlier visit and smiled when she saw Karen.
“You came back,” she said.
“With my daughter.”
The receptionist glanced at Karen and then reached beneath the desk.
“There is something else.”
My stomach tightened.
She placed a small envelope on the counter.
My name was written across it in Robert's handwriting.
Karen saw my face change.
“Mom?”
I picked up the envelope carefully.
“I thought there was nothing left here.”
“Apparently there is.”
Inside was a single folded page.
Robert had written that if I ever returned to Italy with one of our children, I should not spend the day searching for him. Instead, I should take that child somewhere he had once wanted to take me.
He named a small town several hours away.
Below the name, he had written one sentence.
Sometimes the person beside you is the destination.*
I read it twice.
Karen waited until I looked up.
“Where are we going?”
I showed her the page.
She smiled.
“Then let's go.”
We rented a small car and left the city. The road wound through countryside that seemed to belong to another century. Karen drove while I held the letter in my lap, occasionally looking at the name of the town.
Neither of us knew what we would find.
That uncertainty felt strangely wonderful.
When we reached the town, it was nearly afternoon. There was no grand landmark, no museum bearing Robert's name, and no obvious connection to him. We parked near a square and walked through narrow streets until we found an old café.
The owner looked at me for a long moment.
Then his eyes widened.
“Abigail?”
I stopped.
“How do you know my name?”
He wiped his hands on his apron and came around the counter.
“Because your husband told me you might come.”
Karen looked at me.
I felt the familiar mixture of surprise and sadness.
Robert had been here.
The café owner introduced himself as Luca. He said Robert had visited the town many years earlier and returned several times afterward. He had spent hours sketching people, buildings, and ordinary moments.
“Did he tell you about me?” I asked.
Luca smiled.
“He told me about everyone.”
Karen leaned forward.
“What did he say about Mom?”
Luca looked at her.
“He said your mother had spent too much of her life believing that love meant carrying everyone else's weight.”
Karen's expression changed.
I felt tears rise before I could stop them.
Luca continued, “He said one day she would put the weight down. He hoped she would recognize herself when she did.”
Karen reached for my hand under the table.
Luca disappeared into a back room and returned with a small canvas wrapped in cloth.
He placed it before me.
When he uncovered it, I could not breathe.
It was a painting of two women walking down an unfamiliar street.
One was older.
One was younger.
Their faces were not detailed enough to identify.
But their hands were touching.
At the bottom corner was Robert's tiny blue bird.
I stared at it.
“Why did he paint this?”
Luca shook his head.
“He said he didn't know who would walk beside you. Only that someday someone would.”
Karen's fingers tightened around mine.
For the first time, I understood that Robert had not been predicting specific events.
He had been leaving pieces of encouragement wherever he went.
He had known he could not control the future.
He had only wanted me to be ready for it.
That evening, Karen and I sat on a hill outside town as the sun disappeared.
“I thought you sold the house because you were angry with us,” she said.
“I wasn't.”
“I know that now.”
I looked at her.
She continued, “I think I was angry because if you were free, I had to admit I wanted freedom too.”
I nodded slowly.
“Then take it.”
She smiled.
“I think I will.”
We sat together until the sky became dark.
For once, I did not wonder what Robert had planned next.
I simply wondered what Karen and I might choose for ourselves.
And that felt even more frightening—and more beautiful—than following his clues.
Click here to continue reading: PART 14: We Thought Italy Was Robert’s Last Secret, Until a Stranger Arrived With a Painting He Had Refused to Give Anyone
The Morning I Realized Every Square Foot of My Life Belonged to Someone Else
Part 13 of 20
