Chapter 6 - A Honeymoon Without Permission
The first thing I did in Athens was turn off my phone.
The second was sleep for eleven hours.
Daniel ordered breakfast when I woke.
There were eggs, fruit, bread still warm from the oven, and coffee strong enough to restore my faith in several institutions.
I ate on the balcony in a hotel robe.
Nobody announced a pregnancy.
Nobody asked for a bank transfer.
A waiter brought more jam without suggesting I owed him a condominium.
“This,” I told Daniel, “is dangerously pleasant.”
“We should investigate further.”
We did.
We walked through narrow streets.
Visited museums.
Got lost twice because Daniel believed confidence could compensate for not checking the map.
It could not.
I bought a little blue ceramic bowl from a shop where the owner wrapped it as though it were something precious.
For once, I did not calculate whether the money should go to my parents instead.
On the ferry to our next stop, I leaned against Daniel and watched the water.
“I keep expecting to feel guilty.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He considered that.
“What do you want to do anyway?”
I looked at the sea.
“Stay exactly where I am.”
“Then start there.”
It was not a speech.
He did not explain my family to me.
He simply asked what I wanted and made room for the answer.
On the fourth day, I checked messages through the arrangement Marisol and I had made.
A brief scheduled window.
No wandering into the family group chat like an unsupervised tourist entering a volcano.
There were updates.
The lender had acknowledged the dispute and was continuing its investigation.
The financial records and application materials were being preserved.
Dad had provided information.
Chloe had turned over messages showing my mother described the boutique money as a gift from her own savings.
That mattered.
It did not excuse the honeymoon stunt.
It did suggest my sister had not understood where the eighteen thousand dollars came from.
Ben had postponed their wedding planning.
Not because Chloe was pregnant.
Because trust, he apparently felt, was worth checking before ordering chair covers.
Then I opened an email from Dad.
He had attached the spreadsheet.
I had expected numbers.
I had not expected a schedule of my future.
My likely salary increase.
Daniel’s estimated income.
A proposed “family contribution” after we combined households.
A note about how to phrase the request so it sounded temporary.
I put down the phone.
For a moment, all I could hear was the room’s air conditioner.
Daniel sat beside me.
I handed it to him.
He read carefully.
Then he looked up.
“You don’t have to make this funny.”
That sentence undid me.
I cried against his chest until my face hurt.
Not because of the money.
Because somewhere, while I was choosing wedding music and imagining a life with the man I loved, my mother had been calculating how much of that life she could spend.
Later, we walked to the water.
I took off my sandals and stood where the small waves reached my feet.
“I thought if I helped enough, she’d stop comparing us.”
Daniel stood beside me.
“What would that have looked like?”
I smiled sadly.
“I don’t know. Maybe a phone call where she asked how I was and waited for the answer.”
He took my hand.
We watched the sun lower.
The next morning, Grandma called during my scheduled check-in.
“I have news.”
“Please tell me it involves a hobby.”
“Your father is staying with your uncle.”
I sat down.
“Why?”
“He asked your mother questions she considered impolite.”
“Such as?”
“Where did the money go?”
I closed my eyes.
“I don’t want their marriage to end because of me.”
Grandma’s voice sharpened.
“No. You do not get assigned responsibility for consequences simply because you noticed the behavior.”
I stared at the ceramic bowl on the table.
She continued.
“Your mother made decisions. Your father avoided decisions. You took a honeymoon. These are separate activities.”
I laughed.
Then I cried again.
Grandma waited through both.
After the call, Daniel and I rented a small boat excursion.
I wore sunscreen badly and had to be reminded to reapply it.
We ate lunch overlooking the harbor.
That evening, I bought a postcard.
For years, I had sent my mother photographs of every trip, proof that I was safe, attentive, still available.
This postcard was for our apartment.
I wrote on the back:
WE WERE HERE.
Then I added:
AND IT WAS OURS.
When we returned to the hotel, Daniel found me smiling at it.
“What?”
May you like
“Nothing,” I said.
For once, nothing was a complete and wonderful answer.
