The day before my 63rd birthday, I found out that my son had planned a trip and was leaving me behind to look after 18 children. I didn’t say anything at all. On my birthday itself, he called: “Mom, where are you?” I smiled: “Don’t worry … Venice is beautiful!”

The water taxi from the airport moved through lagoons that seemed painted by angels. Ancient buildings rose from the water like dreams made stone, their reflections shimmering in the late-afternoon sun. Other passengers snapped photos frantically, trying to capture the magic, but I just sat quietly and let it wash over me.

My hotel, the Gritti Palace, was a palace indeed. I had booked the most expensive room I could afford, a junior suite overlooking the Grand Canal. The concierge, a distinguished gentleman named Marco, greeted me personally.

“Signora Thompson, welcome to Venezia. We understand this is a special trip.”

“Yes,” I said, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. “It’s my birthday.”

“Ah, buono.

We must celebrate properly.”

Within an hour, my suite was filled with flowers—white roses and Italian lilies that perfumed the air with sweetness. A bottle of Prosecco arrived with a note. For a woman brave enough to give herself the gift of dreams.

—The staff at the Gritti Palace