My grandma spent $30,000 to join our family’s Europe trip. But at the airport, my dad said, ‘I forgot your ticket—just go home.’ The way everyone avoided her eyes told me it wasn’t an accident. I stayed with her. Three weeks later, my parents came back—and the whole family froze, like they were holding their breath, when they saw me standing beside a man. Because…

“The whole family is going to Europe,” he said. “Paris, Rome, London. A once-in-a-lifetime trip.”

My mother nodded, eyes shining in a way I wasn’t used to. “We’ll all go,” she added. “Your Aunt Paula, Uncle Leon, your cousins, and of course your grandmother.”

My heart sped up.

“Europe.” The word felt unreal in my mouth. I’d never even left the country. I could picture the postcards I’d seen in gift shops—the Eiffel Tower against a sunset sky, gondolas gliding through little canals in Venice, double-decker buses in London rolling past palaces and old stone buildings.

More than any of that, I imagined my grandmother.

I pictured her standing under that steel lattice of the Eiffel Tower, her white hair blowing in the Paris breeze. I imagined her on a boat in Venice, laughing as she watched the city lights twinkling across the water, telling me stories the way she did on the porch in Tuloma.

A trip like that sounded like the perfect thank-you. A way for her children to finally give her something big, something that said, We see you. We remember everything you did.