Once we arrived, the kind owner, a woman in her sixties named Miriam, greeted us with open arms. She had a way of making strangers feel like long-lost friends. Over tea and freshly baked scones, I found myself sharing more than I intended about our circumstance. Miriam listened without interrupting, her eyes kind and understanding.

“You both deserve happiness,” she said simply, pouring more tea into my cup. “Sometimes, a little distance helps find clarity.”

Her words resonated, echoing what I had known deep down but hadn’t articulated. We spent the day exploring the beach, collecting seashells, and laughing as the waves tickled our toes. Lily’s eyes sparkled with a lightness I hadn’t seen in a long time, and for the first time since returning from my trip, I felt a sense of peace.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and lavender, I sat with Lily at a picnic table, our dinner spread out before us. She looked up from her sandwich and smiled.

“Mom, can we stay here forever?”

I laughed softly, brushing a crumb from her cheek. “Not forever, sweetheart. But long enough.”

And in that moment, I knew we were going to be alright.