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!”

I found a small table at Caffè Florian, ordered an espresso, and finally called David back. “Mom, thank God. Where are you?

Really?”

“I told you, David. I’m in Venice.”

“Venice? California?

Venice Beach? Mom, that doesn’t make sense. There isn’t any Venice, Italy.”

The silence stretched so long I wondered if the call had dropped.

“That’s impossible. You don’t travel. You don’t even have a passport.”

“I got my passport five years ago, David.

You would know that if you’d ever asked me about my dreams instead of assuming I didn’t have any.”

“Mom, you need to come home right now. There are eighteen kids here and—”

“And they’re not my responsibility.”

Another silence, longer this time. “What do you mean they’re not your responsibility?