The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs as we stood in the sun-drenched square of Óbidos, Portugal. “You know what? Go see your precious museum.
We’ll just continue without you.”
My son Nathan’s voice was sharp with irritation, his jaw set in that stubborn line I remembered from his teenage years.
Beside him, my daughter-in-law Elise scrolled through her phone with deliberate disinterest, designer sunglasses perched on her perfect nose, every inch the influencer she’d become. “Nathan, you can’t be serious,” I stammered, searching his face for any hint this was a poorly conceived joke.
“We’re in a foreign country. I don’t speak Portuguese.
I don’t even know where we’re staying tonight.”
The medieval Portuguese town spread around us like something from a fairytale—whitewashed buildings with terracotta roofs, cobblestone streets worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, flowers spilling from wrought-iron balconies.
Under different circumstances, I would have found it enchanting. Now it felt suddenly alien and threatening. “Mom, you’ve been complaining this entire trip,” Nathan said, not quite meeting my eyes.
“Nothing we do is good enough.
The hotels are too modern. The schedule is too rushed.
We’re not seeing the ‘real Portugal.’” He made air quotes with his fingers, mocking my words. “I just suggested we might visit this small museum I read about,” I said, hating how small my voice sounded.
“It wouldn’t take more than an hour.”
“An hour we don’t have,” Elise interjected, finally looking up from her phone.
“We have reservations at that coastal restaurant I told you about—the one with ten thousand Instagram tags. If we don’t leave now, we’ll miss our slot and lose the perfect lighting.”
“God forbid we miss a photo opportunity,” I muttered under my breath. I saw Nathan’s expression harden, and immediately regretted the comment.
But the unfairness of it all stung like a slap.
I had been nothing but grateful for the invitation to join them on this European vacation—a dream I’d deferred for decades while raising Nathan alone after his father abandoned us when Nathan was just three years old. I had worked two jobs to put him through college, supported his early career when money was tight, babysat his children whenever asked, never complaining, always accommodating.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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