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 opened my laptop and searched for flights to Venice, Italy. The Venice I had dreamed of visiting since I was a little girl, poring over travel magazines in the library. The Venice my late husband Robert had promised to take me to someday before cancer stole our someday.

My hands trembled as I clicked purchase on a first-class ticket departing Thursday morning. The same morning David and Jessica would leave for Napa. I had been saving money quietly for years, tucking away small amounts from my part-time job at the local bookstore.

Money I’d never spent on myself, always finding someone else who needed it more. But that night, looking at my bank balance, I realized I had enough for more than just survival. I had enough for a dream.

The next morning—my birthday—I woke before dawn and began packing. One suitcase. Elegant clothes I’d bought years ago but never worn anywhere special.

My passport, renewed but never used since Robert died. My phone buzzed constantly. Text after text about drop-off times and dietary restrictions and nap schedules.