Until I Met You

‘Quite. We’re cutting the umbilical cord.’ Steven’s salt and pepper hair went every which way, but his glassy blue eyes were steady. That was his serious face. He was serious. ‘It won’t be all fun and games. If you can’t keep up with our pace and consistently miss deadlines, we’ll have to let you go.’

‘I understand.’

‘Not everyone is happy about this. How do you feel?’

‘Free,’ she whispered. ‘I feel free.’

‘Well, fly away, then,’ he said, dismissing her with a flick of a fountain pen. ‘And I want one thousand words on cryptocurrency by the end of the week as a companion piece for next week’s cover story.’

Samantha left the meeting feeling weightless. She was free to fly away. She could pack up her laptop and head to the airport right now. Nothing was stopping her. A spark of excitement fizzled out quick. Where would she even go? Jetlag weighed her down.

That evening, she flipped open her journals in search of a list of travel destinations that she’d compiled way back when. Off the top of her head, she could rattle off a few: Rome, Athens, Barcelona … none of those places called to her now. Maybe somewhere quieter, less obvious. She could reach out to Jasmine for a recommendation. Last year, she’d visited Morocco and loved it. That was a possibility.

Samantha boxed up her journals and shoved them under her bed. Why wasn’t she excited? The world was open to her now. All she wanted to do was lie down and nap. The answer was obvious. Now was not the time for dream-come-true scenarios. Her heart was broken. She did not want to fly. She wanted to curl up in her nest and sleep the days away.

On Friday evening, Samantha had to leave her flat. She rode the bus to her parents’ house and showed up at their door with a bunch of balloons and a HAPPY RETIREMENT banner. Her mother greeted her with a hug and fitted a party hat on her head. She was wearing her official retirement uniform, the finest in athletic leisurewear and a pair of fuzzy slippers. At fifty-seven, her mother was a tall Black woman with a sweet disposition. She would have likely gone on working for two more decades if it weren’t for her chronic migraines.

Her dad, on the other hand, was healthy as an ox and committed to his job.

Samantha had her mother’s height and her dad’s eyes and smile. Her curly hair and cinnamon brown skin were a combination of the two.

It was just the three of them at their dining table, as usual, but for some reason her mother felt the need to apologize. ‘I know this is not as exciting as you would’ve liked but I wasn’t in the mood to get dressed up.’

Samantha looked up from her plate of lasagne. ‘Mum, this is great. I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more. Besides, this is your party.’

‘I made chocolate cake.’

‘Well, what more do we need?’

It hurt her that she’d made her mother feel like her life and experiences weren’t grand enough or that she ought to crisscross the globe to find fulfilment. Some people were meant to wander and others were meant to keep the porch lights on. At this point, Samantha wasn’t sure which she was cut out to be.

As a reward, her dad filled her wine glass. Samantha raised a toast. ‘Happy retirement, Mum. I hope it’s everything you’re dreaming of.’

After dinner, Samantha took her glass of wine to her old bedroom. Only it didn’t feel like hers anymore. There were no longer any posters on the walls, for one thing, and that was a big deal. For another, the books that lined the shelves no longer mattered to her and the clothes hanging in the wardrobe were hopelessly out of fashion.

She stood at the window that looked straight into Naomi’s old room. The new owners had converted the bedroom into a home office. An exercise bike was crammed into a corner. Everyone had moved on. Surprisingly, Samantha was OK with it. Naomi was happy in her new world and happiness was within reach for Samantha as well. She just had to be patient … and proactive.

Come Sunday, she’d return with enough boxes and bags to clear out this room. That would be her gift to her mother. She wouldn’t stop there. She’d splurge on a craft table and whatever else a person needed to do crafts. A top-of-the-line sewing machine or hot glue gun? Samantha made a mental note to look it up. And while she was online, she’d book a cheap flight; it didn’t matter where. The trick was to get going, the rest would sort itself out. Tara had one thing right. You had to go out there and make things happen, for better or worse, come what may. You couldn’t do that by clinging to the past, looking back, wondering what if, and wishing things were different. It was a waste of time.

Deep inside, she knew what the problem was. For all her dreams of travel, she had never expected to go it alone. She loved the shared experience. She’d first caught the bug in Vegas. The trip had changed her perspective entirely. Lounging poolside alone at a five-star resort wasn’t terrible. Sprinkle in a few new friends, a fruity cocktail or two, and those dry hot desert nights were the coolest ever.

I can go it alone.

I can do the things that scare me.

Seriously, what was the point of mantras and affirmations if you didn’t apply them to real-life situations? Maybe hers needed revision.

Each day I’ll do one thing that scares me.

Today, I’ll book a flight.

Tomorrow, I’ll post my blog.

Sunday, I’ll clear out my childhood bedroom to make space for growth.

Tuesday or Wednesday, I’ll wake up in a new city.

Travel was the best way she knew to get out of a rut. Besides, she could always meet new people, make new friends. Until she’d met Jen in Tobago, she thought she’d reached her maximum limit on friendship. And until she met Roman … no – she wouldn’t go there. Not yet. Exploring the world was one thing, but Samantha wasn’t quite ready to explore the shadowy places of her heart.