On Mother’s Day, my grown kids told me they had chosen the restaurant and expected me to pay for all twelve of them, just like always.

Then came babies, medical bills, moving expenses, new appliances, custody fights, business ideas, summer camps, and holiday presents.

Helen had told herself that mothers gave. That was simply what mothers did.

But somewhere along the way, giving had become expected, and expected had become demanded.

At the taxi stand outside the airport, Helen checked her phone. Forty-three messages were waiting.

She did not open them.

Instead, she gave the driver the address of her hotel near Piazza Navona and watched Rome appear beyond the window. Ancient walls. Scooters slipping through traffic. Narrow streets glowing gold in the morning sun. Laundry hanging from balconies. Cafés unlocking their doors.

By the time she arrived at the hotel, her exhaustion had shifted into a strange, clear happiness.

Her room was not ready yet, so she left her suitcase at the front desk and went walking.

She bought a cappuccino and a pastry whose name she could not pronounce. She sat at a tiny outdoor table and ate slowly, without cutting anyone else’s food, without checking whether someone needed ketchup, without reaching for the check before the waiter even brought it.Patio, Lawn & Garden