…a family member joining them permanently. Your ticket is booked. One way.”
I didn’t understand. Neither did the travel agent, a kind woman named Sandra.
“Your son booked four tickets,” she said. “Then, a week later, he called back and added a fifth. Yours. He asked me to keep it confidential.”
I called my son, Michael. I told him I’d seen his wife’s messages and spoken to the contractor. Then I asked about the fifth ticket.
He was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “Mom, I was going to ask you on Christmas Day. I want you to come with us.”
Michael had been offered a job in Sydney. His wife, Nicole, wanted to go. She didn’t want me to come. She’d planned to take my “Christmas money” and leave me behind. Michael had secretly bought my ticket, hoping that if he asked me in front of the children, I’d say yes and Nicole couldn’t refuse.
“I didn’t know she was asking you for thirty-five thousand dollars,” he said. “There’s no renovation. I’m so sorry.”
I didn’t give them the money. And I didn’t go to Australia. My whole life is here: my church, my friends, my husband’s grave. But I told Michael I’d visit every year. He paid for my first trip himself.
In March, I flew to Sydney for three weeks. My grandchildren met me at the airport holding a sign that said, “GRANDMA’S HERE!” Nicole was polite. I was polite back. Michael held my hand in the car the whole way home.
