“Sarah, please,” Mike would wheeze from his bed. “Linda is doing everything. She’s working and taking care of me. You should be helping her, not making things harder.” But Sarah would just roll her eyes and leave, slamming the door behind her.
Mike felt terrible about his daughter’s behavior. “Linny, I’m so sorry,” he’d say, tears in his eyes. “I promised to take care of you, and now you’re the one doing all the heavy lifting. You’re spending your best years emptying bedpans and dealing with my moods.”
One morning, Mike seemed more alert than usual. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice firm despite his weakness. “I’ve booked you a trip. Ten days in Italy. A nice hotel on the coast, all expenses paid.”
Linda was shocked. “Mike, I can’t leave you. That’s impossible.” She pointed out that he needed constant care. But Mike insisted. He had hired a professional nursing service to cover the days she’d be gone, and he’d guilted Sarah into promising to stay at the house in the evenings.
“You’re at a breaking point, Linda. I can see it in your eyes. If you don’t take a break, you’re going to collapse, and then where will we be? It’s only ten days. Go. Breathe some fresh air. Eat some real food. Please, do this for me.”
Linda fought him for two days, but eventually, she gave in. She was indeed exhausted, and Mike’s guilt over her fatigue was making him more miserable than the cancer. She packed a small bag and flew to Rome, feeling a heavy mix of relief and intense guilt.
She called home three times a day. Mike always sounded okay—tired, but okay. He encouraged her to see the sights and stop worrying. So, Linda walked. She explored the ancient streets, sat in quiet piazzas, and let the Mediterranean sun warm her skin.
One afternoon, while sitting at a small cafe, a young Italian man tried to strike up a conversation. He was persistent and a bit too forward, making Linda uncomfortable. She tried to decline his advances in her broken Italian, but he wouldn’t take the hint.
Feeling flustered, she ducked out the back of the cafe and hailed a passing taxi. “Are you American?” the driver asked in perfect English as she climbed in. Linda was so relieved to hear a familiar accent that she almost cried. The driver, a man named Anthony, was an expat who had been living in Italy for a decade.
They talked the whole way to her hotel. Anthony was charming, kind, and clearly lonely for home. He told her about his failed marriage to a local woman and how much he missed the simple things about the States. He offered to show her the “real” Italy the next day—the places tourists never saw.
