Chapter 10 - Walking the Streets of Sintra
On the seventh day, Linda and I took the morning train to Sintra.
The village felt like something pulled from a fairy tale, shrouded in cool mountain mist, surrounded by dense pine forests and dotted with whimsical, pastel-colored palaces. We spent the morning climbing the stone ramparts of the Castelo dos Mouros, looking out across the vast green valleys that stretched all the way to the Atlantic.
For the first time since landing, I wasn't thinking about Caleb, Tori, or the drama back in Illinois. I was entirely present in my own life.
In a small artisan market near the base of the palace, I found a vendor selling handmade porcelain crafts. Among them was an exquisite, hand-painted ceramic seashell, glazed in shades of seafoam green and mother-of-pearl.
*“Maggie wanted to know if I was going to bring her a seashell.”*
I smiled, picking it up gently. It was fragile, beautiful, and deliberate. Beside it, I found a leather-bound journal with a tooled brass clasp for Chloe, a wooden toy boat carved from olive wood for Finn, and a soft, embroidered linen rabbit for baby Leo.
I loved them. That had never changed. Setting boundaries with their parents didn't mean abandoning the children; it meant ensuring that when their grandmother was with them, she was present as a loving elder, not a resentful, exhausted servant.
“Those are lovely,” Linda said, watching me pay the shopkeeper in crisp Euro notes. “You’re taking the high road.”
“The children didn't do anything wrong,” I said as the artisan wrapped the ceramic shell in brown paper. “They are innocent bystanders in their mother’s theater. I want them to know Grandma always remembers them.”
As we walked down the cobblestone path toward the train station, my phone buzzed with an alert from my flight app.
*“Travel Alert: Flight UA965 Lisbon to Chicago O’Hare confirmed for departure in 48 hours.”*
Our trip was winding down. I felt a pang of sadness that the European dream was coming to an end, but it was accompanied by a deep, grounded sense of resolve. I was going home a different woman than the one who had fled her driveway in panic a week ago.
We boarded the train back to Lisbon. Outside the window, the Portuguese countryside rolled past in a blur of terracotta and olive groves.
When we arrived back at our hotel in Alfama around 6:00 p.m., the front desk clerk, a polite young man named Tiago, smiled as he handed me my room key.
“Senhora Carter,” he said in slightly accented English. “A package arrived for you this afternoon? No, pardon me—not a package. A gentleman was inquiring about your room.”
May you like
I stopped in my tracks. “A gentleman? What gentleman?”
“An American,” Tiago replied, checking his logbook. “He did not leave a name. He said he would return this evening.”
