Even after my second husband David died three years ago, I’d focused on being helpful and unobtrusive, the dependable mother who never asked for much. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Nathan said, his voice rising.
“The constant passive-aggressive remarks.
Elise spent weeks planning this itinerary, and you’ve done nothing but criticize.”
The accusation was so patently unfair that for a moment I couldn’t respond. I had been accommodating every step of this trip—going along with Elise’s rigid schedule, rushing through places I’d waited my entire life to see just so she could capture the perfect golden-hour content for her followers. I’d smiled through countless delays while she staged photos, never once voicing my frustration.
But something in me, something new and unfamiliar, refused to accept this characterization.
“That’s not true, and you know it,” I said, standing straighter despite the weight of my sixty-seven years pressing down on me. “I’ve been nothing but accommodating.
I just wanted one hour—sixty minutes—to see something that matters to me instead of another Instagram backdrop.”
Nathan’s jaw tightened further. That stubborn, immovable expression I knew so well settled over his features.
“Whatever, Mom.
We’re leaving. You want to see your authentic Portugal? Here’s your chance.” He turned and walked toward the rental car parked at the edge of the square.
I stood frozen, unable to process what was happening.
Surely he wouldn’t actually leave me here. This had to be a scare tactic, a moment of anger he’d regret in seconds.
“Nathan.” My voice wavered with barely controlled panic. “This isn’t funny.”
He slid into the driver’s seat without responding.
Elise lingered a moment longer, that small, satisfied smile playing at the corners of her perfectly lipsticked mouth.
“Don’t worry, Judith,” she said with artificial sweetness, using my first name like we were peers rather than family. “I’m sure you can find your way to Lisbon. Maybe ask one of the locals for help.” She gestured vaguely toward an elderly Portuguese woman selling handcrafted lace at a nearby stall.
“Oh wait, you don’t speak the language, do you?
Well, I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
She got into the passenger seat, and through the open window I heard her voice, not bothering to lower it: “Vamos ver como ela volta—let’s see how she gets back.”
Nathan’s laugh joined hers, a sound that cut deeper than any words could have. The engine started.
Surely this was just intimidation. They would pull forward a few feet, then stop, let me sweat for a moment before relenting.
My son couldn’t actually be abandoning me in a foreign country where I didn’t speak the language, didn’t know anyone, had no idea how to reach our next hotel.
But he did. I watched in stunned disbelief as the car pulled away from the curb, navigated down the narrow cobblestone street, and disappeared around a corner. The sound of the engine faded into the ambient noise of the square—tourists chattering, a street musician playing guitar, children laughing as they chased pigeons.
For several long moments, I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t even breathe properly.
This couldn’t be happening. My own son couldn’t have just driven away, leaving me stranded in a foreign town like unwanted luggage.
But he had. Panic hit me like a physical wave.
My knees buckled and I grabbed the edge of a nearby stone bench to steady myself, my heart hammering so violently I could feel it in my throat.
Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. A quick mental inventory only heightened my terror. I had my purse with my passport, credit card, and about two hundred euros in cash.
My phone was there too, but I’d been relying on Nathan’s international data plan for the entire trip.
Without WiFi, I couldn’t access maps, translation apps, or hotel booking sites. And my suitcase—with most of my clothes, all my medications, my toiletries—was in the trunk of Nathan’s rental car, growing more distant with each passing second.
I sank onto the bench, trying to control my breathing as tourists streamed past, oblivious to my crisis. The normalcy of the scene felt surreal.
Shopkeepers chatted with customers.
A couple posed for selfies by the medieval wall. Life continued its ordinary rhythm while my world tilted on its axis. What do I do?
The question looped in my mind like a broken record, unanswerable and overwhelming.
My phone showed no signal, no data. I could try calling Nathan, but without an international plan, my phone was essentially useless for anything beyond taking photos.
A text notification appeared on my screen—sent just before they’d driven out of range. “When you’re done being difficult, let us know and we’ll tell you how to get to Lisbon.”
The casual cruelty of it brought tears to my eyes.
I wasn’t being difficult.
I was a sixty-seven-year-old woman who had simply wanted to visit a museum instead of rushing to another Instagram-worthy restaurant. And for that minor transgression, I’d been abandoned in a strange town where I couldn’t even ask for directions. Through the blur of tears, I noticed a small sign in a café window across the square: Free Wi-Fi.
It was a lifeline.
Forcing myself to stand on trembling legs, I walked across the cobblestones and pushed open the café door. Inside, the space was cool and dim after the bright sunlight, the air fragrant with coffee and fresh pastries.
A few tables were occupied by tourists and locals, most staring at phones or engaged in quiet conversation. “Posso ajudar?” A young man behind the counter greeted me with a smile, then registered my distressed appearance.
“You need help?”
“WiFi?” I managed, pointing to the window sign.
“Please?”
“Ah, sim.” He brightened, understanding my limited Portuguese. He pointed to a chalkboard behind the counter where the network name and password were written. “Café?
Espresso?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and fumbled for euros in my purse.
He waved away my money momentarily. “First WiFi.
Then pay. You sit.”
His unexpected kindness nearly undid me completely.
I found a table in the corner, sank into the chair, and with shaking hands entered the WiFi password into my phone.
Please connect. Please work. Please.
The network connected.
Another small victory. I could have wept with relief.
The barista brought a tiny cup of espresso—dark and strong and exactly what I needed. I thanked him with as much composure as I could muster and took a sip, the bitter liquid steadying me slightly.
Now what?
I had internet access, but what was my plan? Call Nathan and beg him to come back? The humiliation of that was almost unbearable.
Find my own way to Lisbon?
The city was over eighty kilometers away, and I’d never been there, didn’t know where their hotel was, didn’t even know its name. Stay here in Óbidos?
That meant admitting I was truly on my own, that my son had actually abandoned me with no intention of prompt return. My phone buzzed.
Another text from Nathan.
“Mom, don’t be ridiculous. Just take a taxi to Lisbon. We’ll pay for it when you get here.”
The dismissive tone ignited something new inside me.
Not panic.
Not fear. Pure, clarifying anger.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I considered my response. Years of maternal training urged me toward apologetic compliance—”Sorry for the trouble, I’ll be there soon.” But that new, unfamiliar part of me that had refused to accept his unfair criticism in the square was growing stronger.
I typed: “I’m safe.
Don’t worry about me. Enjoy your Instagram dinner.”
Then I turned off notifications from both Nathan and Elise and set my phone face-down on the table. The small act of defiance sent a tremor of something that felt almost like power through me.
I would not be rushing to Lisbon today.
I would not be begging my son to rescue me from a situation he had deliberately created. I would figure this out on my own.
The barista approached my table, concern evident on his young face. “Problem?” he asked in halting English, gesturing to my phone and my obvious distress.
Pride warred with practicality.
How could I explain that my own son had abandoned me as some kind of punishment? But I needed help, and pride had no place in survival. “My family,” I began, searching for simple words.
“They left.
In car.” I mimed driving away. “I need hotel for tonight.”
His eyes widened in shock.
“Family left you? Alone?” The disbelief in his voice was somehow validating.
I nodded, fighting back tears that threatened to spill over again.
“Yes.”
He shook his head, genuine indignation crossing his features. “Not good. Not good, family do this.” He pointed to himself.
“Miguel.
I help you.”
Those two words—I help you—from a complete stranger meant more in that moment than I could possibly express. “Judith,” I said, touching my chest.
“Thank you.”
Miguel made a quick phone call, speaking rapid Portuguese I couldn’t follow. When he finished, he showed me a photo on his phone of a narrow building with blue shutters and flower boxes.
“My tia—my aunt—she has guest house.
Small room, clean, safe. Good price. Not expensive hotel.”
“That looks perfect,” I said sincerely.
“How far?”
Miguel pointed across the square.
“Three minutes. There.
I take you now.” He called to an older man sitting at the counter, who nodded and moved behind the bar. “Come.
I show you.”
And just like that, my crisis began to have solutions.
Not because of the family who should have protected me, but because of the kindness of a stranger who saw someone in distress and offered help without hesitation. Miguel walked with me across the square, shortening his stride to match my slower, still-unsteady pace. My legs felt like jelly, adrenaline and caffeine creating a jittery sensation that made each step require conscious effort.
“Why family leave you?” he asked, his direct question catching me off guard.
I sighed, unsure how to explain the complex dynamics. “Disagreement,” I said simply.
“They were angry.”
Miguel shook his head with obvious disapproval. “Not good.
Family don’t leave mother.” He looked mortified immediately.
“Sorry—not old. You not old.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled at his embarrassment. “It’s okay.
I am old enough to know better than to let them treat me this way.”
We arrived at Casa de Maria, a narrow building that matched the photo exactly.
Miguel knocked, and moments later a woman in her early sixties opened the door—salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a practical bun, wearing a simple blue dress with a white apron. She had the same warm eyes as Miguel.
“Tia Maria,” Miguel said, launching into rapid Portuguese that clearly explained my situation. Maria’s expression transformed from polite inquiry to outrage as he spoke.
She responded with emphatic hand gestures and a tone that suggested she had very strong opinions about family members who abandoned elderly relatives in foreign countries.
“My aunt says welcome,” Miguel translated, considerably editing what had clearly been a much longer commentary. “She has room, sixty euros, includes breakfast.”
It was more than I’d budgeted when I thought I’d be splitting hotel costs three ways. But given my circumstances, it seemed like a miracle.
“That’s perfect.
Thank you both so much.”
After Miguel left to return to his café, Maria showed me to a small room on the second floor. It was simple but spotless—a wrought-iron bed with crisp white linens, a window overlooking a tiny courtyard filled with potted lemon trees, a compact bathroom with shower, toilet, and sink.
“Is good?” Maria asked anxiously. “It’s lovely,” I assured her, meaning it.
“Perfect.”
She nodded, satisfied.
“You hungry? I make dinner. Simple, but good.
Seven o’clock?”
Before I could protest that she didn’t need to feed me, she was gone, closing the door softly.
Alone in the quiet room, I sank onto the bed and let the full weight of the day crash over me. My own son had abandoned me in a foreign country.
I was in a stranger’s home with no luggage, no plan beyond tonight, and no clear path forward. The absurdity and horror of it all should have devastated me.
But as I kicked off my shoes and lay back on the surprisingly comfortable bed, something unexpected happened.
Instead of dissolving into tears or panic, I felt a strange, almost giddy sense of liberation. Nathan thought he was teaching me a lesson—punishing me for not falling in line with his plans, for daring to have preferences of my own. But what if, instead of breaking me, he’d actually freed me?
What if this cruel act was the push I needed to finally, at sixty-seven, start living for myself instead of accommodating everyone else?
The thought was both terrifying and intoxicating. I closed my eyes, suddenly exhausted, and despite the unfamiliar surroundings and traumatic events of the day, sleep claimed me within minutes.
I woke to gentle knocking and Maria’s voice calling that dinner was ready. Disoriented, I sat up quickly, momentarily confused by the unfamiliar room.
Then reality returned—Nathan, the abandonment, Miguel, this guest house.
I splashed water on my face, smoothed my rumpled clothes, and headed downstairs. Maria had set a small table in the courtyard, now strung with white lights that cast a gentle glow as dusk settled over the town. A simple meal waited—grilled fish, roasted vegetables, crusty bread, a carafe of red wine.
“Sit, eat,” Maria urged, gesturing to a chair.
“Tomorrow we make plan. Tonight, just eat and rest.”
The meal was delicious, made more so by Maria’s warm presence and lack of judgment.
She didn’t press me for details, didn’t offer unwanted advice. She simply provided food, shelter, and the unspoken message that I was safe here.
As I sipped the wine and felt my body finally begin to relax, I realized something profound: I had survived the first day.
It was a small accomplishment perhaps, but in that moment, it felt monumental. The next morning, sunlight streaming through blue shutters woke me naturally. No alarm, no schedule, no rushed itinerary demanding I be somewhere at a specific time.
The freedom of it was disorienting.
My phone showed seven missed calls and a dozen texts from Nathan, progressing from annoyed to concerned to what appeared to be genuine worry. I scrolled through them without opening any, then set the phone aside.
His concern came too late—after abandoning me, not before. Downstairs, Maria was setting breakfast in the courtyard.
Fresh bread, local cheese, fruit, rich dark coffee that smelled like heaven.
“Bom dia,” she greeted me warmly. “You sleep well?”
“Very well, thank you.” I took the seat she indicated, accepting the coffee gratefully. “So,” Maria said, settling into the chair across from me, “what is your plan?”
The direct question required an honest answer I hadn’t fully formulated.
The logical choice was obvious: go to Lisbon, reunite with Nathan, finish the planned vacation, return to Boston, resume my quiet life.
But everything in me rebelled against that sensible path. “I don’t know,” I admitted.
“I need to think.”
Maria nodded, no judgment in her expression. “Think while you eat.”
As I savored the simple breakfast, my thoughts began to clarify.
What if I didn’t go to Lisbon?
What if, instead of chasing after my ungrateful son, I charted my own course? The idea was both terrifying and exhilarating. I had my passport, credit card, and cash.
I was in good health.
My teacher’s pension was modest but sufficient—I’d paid off my small condo before David’s death, and his life insurance remained largely untouched in conservative investments. I had no pressing responsibilities back home.
No pets. No plants.
No appointments that couldn’t be rescheduled.
What I didn’t have was courage. Or did I? Hadn’t I already survived being abandoned in a foreign country?
Hadn’t I found shelter, made connections, taken care of myself?
“There is bus to Caldas da Rainha at ten-thirty,” Maria said, interrupting my thoughts. “Bigger town, fifteen minutes away.
You can buy clothes, toiletries there. I show you where to catch it.”
I checked my watch.
Nine-fifteen.
Plenty of time. “That would be very helpful.”
After breakfast, I composed a text to Nathan: “I am safe and have found accommodation in Óbidos. Taking time to think about next steps.
We’ll be in touch.”
His response was immediate: “Thank God.
We were about to call the embassy. Where are you staying?
We’ll come get you right away.”
No apology. No acknowledgment of what they’d done.
Just the assumption that I would immediately fall back into line, grateful for their rescue.
I typed back: “No need. I’m fine where I am.” Then, after hesitation: “What you did was cruel and dangerous. I need time.”
I turned off my phone before I could see his response.
Maria walked me to the bus stop, pointing out landmarks so I could find my way back.
The bus journey to Caldas da Rainha was peaceful, winding through countryside that would have charmed me under any circumstances. At a department store, I purchased two changes of clothes, underwear, and a small bag.
At a pharmacy, I found toiletries and basic cosmetics. The transactions required minimal language—pointing, smiling, nodding—but I managed.
Sitting in a café with a sandwich and sparkling water, I turned my phone back on.
More texts from Nathan, ranging from concerned to angry: “Mom, this isn’t funny. We’ve contacted hotels in Óbidos. Nobody has seen you.
Are you trying to punish us?
Because it’s working. Elise is upset.
She says you’re ruining the trip.”
That last message made me laugh out loud, drawing curious glances from nearby tables. Elise was upset.
The woman who had orchestrated my abandonment, who had laughed as they drove away, was upset that I wasn’t falling in line with her perfect Instagram vacation.
The absurdity crystallized everything. I had spent decades accommodating others—raising Nathan alone, supporting everyone else’s dreams, being the perfect mother-in-law who never criticized, babysitting at a moment’s notice. I had been reliable, supportive, selfless.
And how had I been repaid?
With abandonment. With cruelty disguised as a joke.
With the expectation that I would meekly return after being taught my lesson. In that Portuguese café, surrounded by strangers, something hardened inside me.
A decision I hadn’t consciously made but that had been forming since Nathan drove away.
I wasn’t going back. Not to Lisbon. Not to that suffocating dynamic.
Not to a life of careful accommodation and unreciprocated devotion.
I had no clear plan, no specific destination. But for the first time in decades, I had something more precious: the freedom to choose my own path.
I typed a final message to Nathan: “I’ve decided to continue traveling on my own for a while. I am safe and have everything I need.
This is my choice, not punishment.
I need time to think about what happened and what it means. I’ll be in touch when I’m ready. Please respect my decision.”
I pressed send, then turned off notifications from both Nathan and Elise.
Whatever guilt-inducing responses they might craft, I didn’t need to see them.
Not now, when my newfound courage felt so fragile. I returned to Casa de Maria with my purchases and spent the afternoon researching.
Train schedules. Hotel costs in various cities.
Basic Italian phrases—because Italy, specifically Tuscany, kept drawing my attention.
I had taught Renaissance art and history for thirty years, showing students slides of Florence and the Tuscan hill towns, describing places I’d never seen with my own eyes. The irony wasn’t lost on me. That evening, I told Maria my plan.
“I’m not going back to my son.
I’m going to Italy. To Florence.”
Her eyebrows rose, but approval rather than surprise colored her expression.
“Brave. Very brave.” She paused.
“My brother drives to Lisbon tomorrow for business.
He can take you. No charge—family price.”
The next day, João—Maria’s barrel-chested brother with a booming laugh—drove me to Lisbon, regaling me with stories and pointing out landmarks. At the train station, he insisted on making sure I understood where to go, how to find my platform.
“Boa viagem,” he said, clasping my hands.
“Good journey.”
“Thank you,” I replied, meaning it in ways that transcended the ride. I spent the day exploring Lisbon at my own pace—no rushing, no schedule, no one checking their watch with pointed sighs.
I visited the Sé Cathedral, wandered the Praça do Comércio, enjoyed a leisurely lunch. By late afternoon, I made my way back to the station for the overnight train to Madrid, where I’d catch a flight to Florence the next day.
As the train pulled away from Lisbon, the city lights beginning to twinkle in the dusk, I felt a curious lightness.
As if in leaving behind the site of Nathan’s betrayal, I was also shedding decades of obligations and expectations. The journey to Florence—train to Madrid, brief hotel stay, flight to Florence—passed in a blur of nervous excitement. And when I finally stood at the window of my small hotel room overlooking a narrow Florentine street, tears streamed down my face.
Not from sadness, but from overwhelming joy.
I had made it. On my own.
At sixty-seven, with no travel experience and limited language skills, I had navigated across three countries to reach a place I’d dreamed of for decades. The weeks that followed were revelatory.
I moved from the hotel to a small apartment in the Oltrarno district.
I established routines—early morning espresso at a neighborhood café, days exploring museums at my own pace, evenings sketching in my newly purchased sketchbook. I made friends: Giorgio, the café owner who greeted me by name. Margaret, a retired librarian from Chicago.
Antonio, a widowed professor who shared my passion for Renaissance art.
Antonio became a particularly close friend. We met at the Duomo on my first day, where he commented on my sketching.
Over subsequent weeks, we fell into a pattern of meeting for coffee, visiting museums together, engaging in long conversations about art, history, and life. When he invited me to visit his family’s vineyard property near Montepulciano for the summer, I accepted without hesitation.
La Colombaja—the dove tower—was everything I hadn’t known I needed.
A working vineyard in the Tuscan hills, far from tourist crowds, where days passed in gentle rhythms of gardening, reading, helping with the grape harvest, and long evening meals with Antonio, his nephew Luca, and Sofia the housekeeper who treated me like family. I had been there three weeks when Nathan finally tracked me down. I was in the small cottage garden, deadheading roses, when Sofia appeared.
“Judith, you have visitor.
Your son. He is at the main house with Antonio.”
My heart stuttered.
Nathan was here. After weeks of minimal contact—brief texts every few days assuring him I was safe—he had somehow found me.
I found them in the loggia—Antonio standing protectively near Nathan, who looked simultaneously relieved and furious.
Elise hovered near the entrance, her perfect makeup showing signs of travel fatigue. “Mom.” Nathan’s voice cracked. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Living,” I said simply.
“What are you doing here?”
“What am I—” He sputtered, incredulous.
“We’ve been worried sick! You disappeared into Italy, stopped answering calls, and according to some hotel clerk who barely spoke English, you’re staying at a vineyard with a strange man!”
“Not strange,” Antonio interjected mildly.
“We have been properly introduced.”
Nathan ignored him. “You need to come home.
This has gone on long enough.”
“I’m not ready to come home,” I said, surprised by how calm I felt.
“I like my life here.”
“Your life? Mom, you don’t have a life here. You have some extended vacation that’s gotten out of hand.
You have responsibilities back home—”
“What responsibilities?” I interrupted.
“Name one actual responsibility I have waiting in Boston.”
He faltered. “Your home.
Your—”
“My condo that’s paid off and requires no maintenance beyond what a property manager can handle? What else?”
“The kids miss you,” Elise said, speaking for the first time.
“They ask about Grandma.”
“Then perhaps you should bring them to visit,” I suggested.
“I’d love to see them. Here, in this beautiful place, where nobody is rushing me or treating me like a burden.”
Nathan’s face flushed. “Is that what this is about?
Portugal?
Mom, I apologized for that. Multiple times.”
“You apologized for abandoning me only after it became clear I wasn’t coming back on my terms,” I corrected.
“You never apologized for the years of taking me for granted, of expecting me to accommodate everyone else while my own wishes didn’t matter.”
“That’s not fair—”
“Isn’t it?” I met his eyes steadily. “When was the last time you asked what I wanted?
What would make me happy?
When did my preferences factor into any decision?”
Silence fell over the loggia. Antonio excused himself quietly, giving us privacy. Elise studied her phone as if it held the secrets of the universe.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Nathan said finally, his anger deflating into confusion.
“Tell me how to fix this.”
“I don’t want you to fix it,” I said gently. “I want you to understand that I’m not the same person I was in Portugal.
That abandonment hurt, but it also freed me. I discovered I could take care of myself, that I could be happy on my own, that my life didn’t have to revolve around accommodating everyone else.”
“So what now?” he asked.
“You just stay here forever?
Abandon your real life?”
“This is my real life,” I said. “And I’m staying through harvest season, at least. After that, I don’t know.
Maybe I’ll come home for a while.
Maybe I’ll travel more. Maybe I’ll split my time between Boston and Italy.
The point is, it’s my choice.”
We talked for another hour. It wasn’t a resolution—too much had been damaged, too much needed to be rebuilt.
But it was a beginning.
Nathan heard, perhaps for the first time, how his actions had affected me. How years of taking me for granted had eroded our relationship. How his cruelty in Portugal had been the catalyst for a transformation he didn’t understand but needed to respect.
They left the next day, promising to think about what I’d said.
As their rental car disappeared down the gravel road, Antonio joined me on the loggia. “You did well,” he said quietly.
“Not easy, saying truth to family.”
“No,” I agreed. “But necessary.”
He poured two glasses of wine from his family’s vineyard.
“To new beginnings,” he said, raising his glass.
“To new beginnings,” I echoed. As the Tuscan sun set over the rolling hills, painting everything in shades of gold, I felt a profound sense of peace. My journey had begun with abandonment and betrayal.
But it had led me here—to this beautiful place, these kind people, this life I was building for myself.
Not in spite of what Nathan had done, but perhaps, in some strange way, because of it. I would go home eventually.
But I would go as someone different—someone who had learned that it’s never too late to start over, to choose yourself, to discover that the person you were meant to be was waiting all along, just needing the courage to emerge. The woman abandoned in Portugal was gone.
In her place stood someone stronger, happier, more fully alive than I had been in decades.
And for that unexpected gift, I would be forever grateful.
