The Holiday Ticket

I woke up the next morning to the relentless, high-pitched buzzing of my phone vibrating against the wooden nightstand.

*Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.*

Groggily, I reached out and grabbed the screen. It was 7:30 AM Swiss time. Back in America, it was the middle of the night—or rather, early morning.

My notification tray was an absolute war zone.

* Mark Dawson: 5 missed calls, 12 urgent text messages.

* Hannah Dawson: 4 missed calls.

* My sister Sarah: 3 missed calls and a Facebook comment: “Linda Marie Dawson, who on earth is this man?! Call me right now!”

* Facebook notifications: Over eighty likes and forty-two comments in less than six hours.

My thumb tapped on Mark’s latest text message:

*Mom, where are you?! Who is this man? Why are you in Europe? Everyone is losing their minds here! Call us immediately!*

I sat up in bed, pulling the duvet around my shoulders, and stared at the screen as a slow, triumphant bubble of amusement rose in my chest.

For eight years, my life had moved at their convenience. If I traveled, it was to visit them. If I celebrated a holiday, it was around their dining table. The idea that I could pack a bag, fly to Europe, and fall into the orbit of an eligible, charming silver-haired architect without asking for their permission had apparently short-circuited their entire family operating system.

My phone rang right then, flashing MARK across the screen in bold letters.

I took a deep breath, slid the green answer button, and brought the phone to my ear.

"Mom!" Mark’s voice exploded through the speaker, breathless and high-pitched with panic and indignation. "Where are you?! Are you out of your mind? Uncle Bob saw your Facebook post and woke us up at 2:00 AM! Who is that man sitting next to you?"

I kept my voice ice-cold, calm, and completely level.