“You have to watch Brooke’s children tomorrow,” my mother said the night before I was supposed to fly to Iceland.
She did not ask whether I was available. She did not ask what time my flight left or whether my reservations could be changed. She spoke with the calm certainty of someone assigning a task that had already been decided.
I stood in the entryway of my townhouse in Providence, one hand resting on the handle of a packed suitcase. My winter coat lay folded across the top. A folder containing flight confirmations, hotel reservations, and the receipt for a glacier tour waited inside the front pocket.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Your sister has an emergency.”
“What kind of emergency?”
“She has to go to Boston for a mandatory work conference.”
“Tomorrow?”
“It came up suddenly.”
“My flight leaves at eight in the morning.”
My mother released a tired breath.
“Megan, this is not the time to make everything complicated.”
“I’m not making it complicated. I’m leaving the country.”
“Then change the flight.”
The words entered the room and seemed to settle on every object I had prepared.
For three years, I had saved for that trip. During the day, I worked as a project architect for a company that restored historic theaters, libraries, and civic buildings across New England. On weekends, I accepted inspection work in old schools and municipal halls, climbing into roof spaces and writing reports late into Sunday nights.
I had skipped restaurant dinners, delayed replacing my car, and said no to easier weekends because I wanted one week in Iceland.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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