Chapter 2 - I Didn't Cancel Their FlightsThe easiest thing would have been to cancel everything.
For approximately thirty seconds, I wanted to.
I imagined my parents arriving at Logan International Airport, rolling their expensive new luggage toward the business-class counter, only to discover their seats no longer existed.
I imagined Madison's expression.
I imagined Mom calling me selfish.
Then I closed my eyes.
That wasn't who I wanted to become.
Their flights were gifts already given.
I left them alone.
But everything else required a decision.
“Would you like to cancel the villa reservation?” the concierge asked.
Her name was Camille Laurent, and we'd exchanged probably forty emails over the previous six months.
“No,” I said.
There was a pause.
“You are still traveling?”
I looked toward my packed suitcase.
Until that moment, I hadn't decided.
“Yes.”
The word surprised me.
Camille sounded pleased.
“Wonderful. Will your parents still be accompanying you?”
“No.”
Another pause.
Professional this time.
“I understand.”
“You probably don't.”
She laughed gently.
“I have worked in luxury hospitality for nineteen years, Ms. Hart. I understand more family vacations than you might imagine.”
For the first time that morning, I smiled.
I explained that my parents intended to travel with my sister instead, without me.
Camille checked the reservation.
“As you know, the villa is contracted under your name. Your parents were authorized accompanying guests. Your sister isn't listed.”
“Can they check in without me?”
“No. Not to the villa.”
“Good.”
I hated how satisfying the word felt.
But I didn't change it.
I canceled the airport chauffeur assigned to them.
Then reconsidered.
“Actually, Camille?”
“Yes?”
“Could you arrange transportation for them to a normal hotel?”
She paused.
“You would like to book them another property?”
“Only for one night. Something safe. Clean. Reasonable.”
I wasn't trying to strand my parents in a foreign country.
I was setting a boundary.
There is a difference.
Camille found a perfectly respectable four-star hotel near the Nice waterfront and reserved two rooms for one evening using the credit I already had on account.
After that, they could decide what they wanted to do.
The villa remained mine.
The yacht remained mine.
The restaurant reservations remained mine.
The vineyard remained mine.
And suddenly I realized I still had a week of approved vacation.
I had a suitcase packed.
My passport sat on the kitchen counter.
Why was I sitting at home?
I searched flights.
The original itinerary I'd purchased had a connection in London because Dad liked breaking long travel days into sections.
A nonstop flight to Paris left that afternoon.
From Paris, I could connect to Nice and arrive only ninety minutes after them.
Business class was nearly full.
I bought the last seat.
Then I showered.
By the time I left for the airport, twenty-three messages waited on my phone.
Most were from Mom.
The first few were annoyed.
We're at the airport.
You could at least wish us a safe flight.
Then:
They moved us around because Madison's ticket is economy. We're trying to upgrade her.
Then:
The airline wants $3,900. Can you call them?
That almost impressed me.
They had replaced me and still expected me to negotiate my replacement's upgrade.
I didn't answer.
Thirty minutes later:
Madison is upset. She shouldn't have to sit alone for seven hours.
Apparently emotional abandonment was only unacceptable when Madison experienced it.
I turned off notifications.
At the airport lounge, I ordered coffee and watched aircraft move across the runway.
I expected to feel triumphant.
Instead, I felt empty.
Betrayal doesn't always arrive dramatically.
Sometimes it's three people standing in a familiar living room, casually informing you that the memories you thought you were creating with them would be more enjoyable without you.
My best friend, Rachel, called while I was waiting to board.
I had texted her four words earlier.
They took Madison instead.
She didn't say hello.
“Tell me you're joking.”
“I wish.”
“Elena.”
“I know.”
“You paid for everything.”
“I know.”
“And they told you today?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Then Rachel said something I hadn't allowed myself to think.
“They knew before today.”
I looked through the terminal windows.
“What?”
“They bought Madison's ticket last night, right?”
“Yes.”
“You don't suddenly decide to take someone to Europe the night before an international trip. They discussed this.”
My stomach tightened.
Maybe Madison had been packing for days.
Maybe they'd planned the conversation.
Maybe my mother had deliberately waited until there wasn't enough time for me to argue.
Rachel continued.
“What are you doing?”
“Going anyway.”
Another silence.
Then she laughed.
Not cruelly.
Proudly.
“Good.”
“They don't know.”
“Even better.”
I told her about the villa.
The principal-guest clause.
The canceled chauffeur.
The backup hotel.
Rachel became quiet again.
“You're nicer than I would be.”
“I'm not trying to punish them.”
“Yes, you are.”
I started to object.
She stopped me.
“And that's okay. Consequences aren't cruelty.”
I didn't answer.
The boarding announcement sounded.
Before hanging up, Rachel said, “Promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“Don't spend the entire week waiting for them to apologize.”
I looked down at my passport.
“What should I do instead?”
“Have the vacation you paid for.”
That sentence stayed with me all the way across the Atlantic.
While my parents and sister traveled through London, I flew east alone.
I slept for several hours.
Watched a movie.
Drank champagne I barely tasted.
Somewhere over the ocean, I made another decision.
I removed my parents as authorized guests from the villa.
Not because I planned to lock them outside.
Because if they wanted to spend time with me now, they were going to ask.
They were no longer entitled to walk into anything simply because I had paid for it.
When I landed in Paris, my phone exploded with messages.
Their flight had reached London.
Madison had apparently complained so much about economy that Dad had switched seats with her.
Mom sent:
Your father is cramped in the back and his knee hurts. Happy now?
I almost responded.
Then stopped.
Whatever answer she wanted, I wasn't giving it to her.
I boarded my flight to Nice.
By the time I landed, the Mediterranean sunset was turning the sky orange.
Camille was waiting outside baggage claim holding a small sign with my name.
She smiled.
“Welcome to France, Ms. Hart.”
A black Mercedes waited outside.
As we drove along the coast, I watched the sea appear between buildings.
For eleven months, I had imagined Mom beside me.
Instead, the seat was empty.
It hurt.
But it was peaceful.
Camille received a message while we drove.
She glanced at her phone.
Then at me.
“I believe your family has landed.”
My heartbeat changed.
“Are they expecting someone to collect them?”
“Yes.”
I frowned.
“I canceled the chauffeur.”
“You did.”
“Then who?”
Camille's expression became almost apologetic.
“They apparently approached our airport representative because they recognized the company logo.”
I stared at her.
“What did they say?”
Camille looked at her phone again.
“Your mother informed him that you had stayed home, that your sister would be taking your place, and that he should bring them to the villa.”
Of course she did.
I looked out at the Mediterranean.
“What did he tell her?”
“That the reservation could not be transferred.”
I could almost see Mom's face.
Camille continued carefully.
“Your mother said there must be a mistake.”
I smiled without meaning to.
“And then?”
“He informed her there was no mistake.”
My phone rang.
Mom.
I watched it.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then a message appeared.
ELENA. CALL ME NOW.
Another followed immediately.
They are saying we cannot go to the villa without you. Fix this.
I stared at the screen.
For years, whenever Madison needed rescuing, Mom told me family helped family.
Whenever I needed anything, Mom reminded me I was strong enough to handle it.
Perhaps she was right.
Perhaps strength wasn't always about carrying everyone.
Sometimes strength was allowing people to carry the consequences of what they chose.
I typed four words.
Camille has your hotel.
Mom responded instantly.
WHAT HOTEL?
Then:
WE ARE SUPPOSED TO HAVE A VILLA.
I turned my phone facedown.
Camille's Mercedes climbed toward the coast.
Ten minutes later, enormous wooden gates opened.
Beyond them stood the villa.
White stone.
Glass walls.
An infinity pool reflecting the sunset.
The Mediterranean stretching endlessly beyond it.
For a moment, even I forgot to breathe.
Camille smiled.
“This week was designed for you, Ms. Hart.”
I stepped out of the car.
And for the first time in years, I wondered what my life might look like if I stopped designing everything for everyone else.
May you like
Back at Nice Airport, my mother was beginning to wonder the same thing.
For very different reasons.
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