On the morning of our flight, I arrived at the airport early with my mother. She wore a straw hat that made her look delighted before we even reached the check-in counter. I had packed light: a few dresses, sandals, a notebook and the blue dress I had worn to the harbor village on the first trip. I had left the ring pouch in the wooden jewelry box my father made when I was a teenager, where it could remain without asking anything of me.
As we waited in line, a woman in a white dress walked past pulling a cream suitcase. My body reacted before my mind could make sense of it, a sudden tightening in my stomach and the sharp memory of Sofia turning toward Julian beside the departure board. For half a second I was back in the airport a year earlier, still wearing a wedding ring and trying to calculate the safest expression to put on my face. Then my mother touched my arm and asked whether I preferred tea or coffee before the flight.
I looked at the woman again. She was laughing with a friend and dragging a suitcase that had lost one wheel's smooth movement. She had no part in my story. She was simply traveling somewhere in a white dress, and I did not need to make her a symbol of what had happened to me. The tightness passed, leaving a faint sadness that no longer felt like a command.
"Coffee," I told my mother. "And maybe something to eat. We have time."
On the plane, she took the window seat and pressed her forehead close to the glass as the aircraft climbed above Atlanta. She pointed out the river and the neighborhoods below, naming places she had visited as a young teacher and laughing when the city disappeared beneath clouds. I watched her more than I watched the view. Her delight reminded me that wonder does not belong only to people who have never been hurt.
At the guesthouse, we checked in together, our names correctly printed on the booking and our choices made weeks earlier. The room had a simple wooden table, shutters painted a cheerful blue and two beds covered in white cotton. There were no champagne glasses, no welcome card addressed to a husband and wife, no surprise guest whose presence I was expected to accept. My mother opened the balcony doors, breathed in the sea air and announced that the place was perfect.
We spent the first evening walking through the village and eating grilled fish from a cafe with mismatched chairs. My mother bought a postcard, then decided she wanted to write it to herself and mail it home as evidence that she had finally taken a trip for no reason except pleasure. I laughed so hard I had to put down my drink. The sound was unfamiliar in its freedom. I could hear it without wondering who might be annoyed.