We'll Always Have Paris

“Happy birthday Princess!”

I smiled at my dad’s greeting. No matter how old I got, I was still his little girl. I sat across from him at our favorite Italian restaurant. We had been coming to Luigi’s for dinner together for as long as I could remember, just the two of us.

“Thanks Dad,” I responded as Mr. Luigi rushed up with a bottle of merlot.

“Happy birthday cara,” he boomed, reaching down to give me a one-armed hug. “I will bring you all your favorites. Special dinner for a special girl.”

After a leisurely and delicious dinner, my father and I lingered, chatting as we shared a slice of tiramisu. Dad grew quiet, then reached into his pocket and handed me a small, flat package, wrapped in faded wrapping paper.

I raised my eyes curiously as he slid it towards me, his expression unusually somber.

“What’s this Dad?” I asked. “You already gave me my birthday present.”

“It’s not from me, Elizabeth.”

I tilted my head curiously. “Then who’s it from?”

“Your mother.”

I dropped my fork with a soft thud.

“Dad, what are you talking about?” I whispered, my eyes fixed on the tattered wrapping paper. “Mom’s been dead for twenty-five years now.”

He cleared his throat and I looked up to meet his eyes.

“I know you probably don’t remember that much, but your mom was sick for a while. It was such a shock for us. Maybe if they had caught it earlier, but they don’t expect a woman in her twenties to get breast cancer, so they didn’t catch it right away.”

His voice broke, and he cleared his throat before continuing, “She was first diagnosed with the cancer when you were three, but she fought it. She fought it so hard, Elizabeth, but her body finally gave out right before your fifth birthday.”

I nodded, and my eyes filled with tears. Eyes that were the same shade of blue as my mother. My only memories of my mother were of her frail and sick, a colorful scarf covering her bald head.

“She knew she was near the end, and she gave me this a week before your birthday. At first, I thought she meant to give it to you then, but she made me promise to hold onto it and give it to you when you turned thirty. She died a couple of days later.”

Tears were falling down my face now. I had a great life with my dad, but I still mourned the loss of my mother. I wish we had more time together. I wish I had been older and could have understood that our time was so limited.

I pulled on the ribbon and my dad placed his hand over mine. “I think you might want to open it when you’re alone,” he told me.

I slipped the package into my purse and we finished dinner. Normally I would have lingered, but the present from my mom was practically burning a hole in my purse. I wanted to open it as soon as possible.

When I finally got back to my apartment, I put on my pajamas and poured myself a glass of wine. I sat on the couch and stared at the package. The wrapping paper was probably once white, with a pattern of red and yellow daisies, and a red ribbon. The paper was a bit yellow with age, and the flowers had lost their vibrance, but it was beautiful. My mom had wrapped this. Just for me. I imagined her folding the paper and tying the ribbon on, her tongue peeking out from between her lips the way it always did when she was concentrating.

I unwrapped it carefully, trying to save the wrapping paper, and looked inside the flat box. Nestled between pink tissue paper was a small black notebook with a black cover. It was the only thing in the box. I lifted it carefully, turning it over in my hands before finally opening it.

The first page was a note to me.

Dear Elizabeth,

If you are reading this, you have just turned thirty. Congratulations you’ve outlived your mother. (smiley face)

As I write this, I know my time with you is coming to an end. In this book you’ll find the story of me. My memories from childhood, the story of how I met your father and fell in love when we were still in high school, and the story of my time with you. I give this to you to help you remember me. What’s that old saying about how people are never truly gone as long as someone remembers them?

I want you to know me Elizabeth, even though I never got to know the woman you became. I hope you enjoy hearing my story.

But this is not your only gift my dear sweet daughter. When I turned twenty-one my grandmother gifted me a trust fund in the amount of $20,000. Your father and I kept it untouched for a rainy day, but when I got sick and realized my time on Earth was ending, I decided to transfer it into your name. In the back pocket of this notebook, you’ll find the information on how to access it. I’m sure it’s worth much more now after 25 years of interest.

Life is short. No one understands this better than me. I hope you’ll use this money to make your dreams come true. Travel around the world, put a down payment on a house, open your own business, whatever will give you joy.

I wish you all the best in this world Elizabeth. I love you with all my heart.

Mom

I thumbed through the pages, knowing that I would be up all night binging on my mother’s stories. It was like she knew, she knew I would always be hungry to know stories about her.

My dad didn’t talk about her too much. I used to think he wanted to forget her, but as an adult, I understood it was too painful for him to remember losing the love of his life.

I pulled the paper out of the back and noted that the account was with a nearby bank. What should I do with the $20,000 I wondered?

The practical side of me thought I should leave the money in the bank. Save it for rainy day. But then I remembered that my mother’s rainy day never came. None of us knew how much time we had left.

My eyes moved to a picture on my mantle. It was my parents on their honeymoon when they were only nineteen years old. They stood in front of a replica of the Eiffel Tower at Epcot Center in Florida, looking impossibly young and in love.

I had a flash of a long-forgotten memory of asking my mom about the picture. I must have been four or five at the time, and she sat on the couch, thin and frail, as we looked at the framed photo together.

“Why did you go there Mommy?” I asked her.

“Your father and I wanted to go to Paris, France for our honeymoon Elizabeth, but we didn’t have enough money so we got as close as we could: Epcot Center,” she had explained. Her eyes were full of tears, but I didn't understand why.

She took a deep breath and continued, “We promised ourselves that we would go to Paris for our twenty-fifth anniversary instead. We took this picture to help us remember. But now...now I guess I'll never see Paris.”

My mother never made it to Paris, but I would go instead, I resolved. I could pay for a nice trip to France and still have money left in the trust fund for something else. I would do all the things she dreamed of doing, as my tribute to her.

I settled back on the couch and began to read my mom’s life story, feeling closer to her than I had ever felt.

“Thank you, mom,” I whispered. “I love you.”