My dad and I weren’t always close, but after the divorce, we made an effort. Calls every week. Weekend visits. We even started planning a “bucket list” trip together—just us. Rome. The city I’d dreamed of since I was little.

He picked the date. Booked the flights. Sent me screenshots and everything. I even bought a new suitcase and started brushing up on my rusty Italian.

Then two weeks before the trip, he calls. Casual voice. Like he’s telling me the weather. “Hey, so slight change of plans… I’m taking Nadine instead.”

His girlfriend. The one he met online. The one with two teen sons who already take up most of his time and headspace.

I waited for the punchline. It didn’t come.

He said something about “making it a romantic getaway” and how we could “always plan something another time.” Said I should understand—after all, he lives with them now, and they barely get alone time.

I didn’t even know what to say. My voice literally cracked when I told him I’d already requested the time off. That I’d been counting down the days. That this was supposed to be our thing.

He sighed. Like I was being difficult. Said he’d bring me back a souvenir.

A souvenir. From the trip I was supposed to be on.

But when my mom found out, she didn’t get mad. She got quiet. I think that was worse. She just sat there, lips pressed tight, then said, “Alright. Let me see what I can do.”

I figured she meant emotionally. Like, “Let me try to cheer you up.” But I underestimated her.

Two days later, she knocked on my bedroom door holding an envelope. “Pack your bags,” she said. “You’re still going to Rome.”

At first, I laughed. I thought she was joking. I mean, she’s a single nurse who works doubles and still manages to help my grandma out with errands every weekend. But she wasn’t joking.

“I used my airline miles,” she said. “I was saving them for Hawaii, but screw it. You’ve been dreaming about this longer than I’ve been dreaming about sitting on a beach.”

I started crying. I couldn’t even stop it. Not just because she saved the trip, but because she saw me. I felt so invisible after that call with Dad, like my feelings were too inconvenient to matter.

It turned out she had enough miles for a ticket and a couple of nights at a modest Airbnb. Nothing fancy, but who cared? I was going.

Here’s where the twist comes in.

The night before my flight, Dad called again. Probably thought I’d still be sulking. I didn’t pick up at first, but he texted, “Need to talk—urgent.” So I answered.

He sounded nervous. “Hey, uh… just wondering if you’re still mad.”

I told him, “Not really,” which was mostly true.

Then he hit me with this: “Well, funny story—Nadine and I had a fight. She’s not coming anymore. Thought maybe we could go after all? I’ll pay for your ticket again. We can just switch the name.”

I stared at my wall like he was joking. “You gave my ticket away, and now you’re offering it back because she bailed?”

He laughed, like that made it better. “C’mon, it’s still the trip you wanted. Let’s not waste it.”

I told him no. Actually, I told him, “I’m already going. Mom made it happen. I leave tomorrow.”

The silence on the other end was… satisfying. He stammered, tried to sound supportive, but I could tell he was embarrassed. I wasn’t supposed to move on without him.

And then came the kicker.

He asked, “Are you still staying at that place I booked?”

“No,” I said, “I’m staying somewhere better.”

And I was. Because my Airbnb host turned out to be this warm, older woman named Marta who treated me like family the second I walked through the door. She gave me homemade biscotti, told me which streets to avoid, and even invited me to her niece’s wedding on my last night there.

The wedding was in this tiny, ivy-covered courtyard tucked behind a bakery. I barely understood the ceremony, but I didn’t care. The lights, the laughter, the music—it was one of the most magical things I’ve ever experienced.

I took pictures, of course. Shared some online, sent others to friends. I debated whether to send one to Dad. In the end, I didn’t. Not out of spite, but because I wanted this to be mine. My memory. My win.

I journaled every night during that trip. It helped me process how different love can look when it’s real versus when it’s conditional. My mom showed me real love. So did Marta. Even the strangers who helped me with directions, or recommended the best gelato in Trastevere.

But Dad? He showed me something else. Something I needed to learn.

When someone chooses you only when it’s convenient for them, it’s not love. It’s preference.

I came home feeling lighter—not because everything was resolved, but because I stopped waiting for someone to pick me.

A week later, Dad called again. He told me he saw my photos—apparently, my cousin had reposted one. “Looks like you had fun,” he said, kind of flat.

“I did,” I told him. “Thanks for the inspiration.”

He tried to make plans again, some vague idea about a road trip. I told him maybe. And I meant it. Not out of bitterness, but because I get to choose now.

A few months later, something unexpected happened.

Marta—the sweet Airbnb host—reached out. Her niece, the one who got married, had started a small cultural tour company. They needed someone fluent in English to help with marketing to international travelers.

She remembered how I’d helped her niece organize wedding photos and translate thank-you notes after the wedding. “You have a gentle way with words,” Marta said. “You made everyone feel seen.”

I took the job. Remotely, at first. Then, after a few months of saving and planning, I moved to Rome.

It sounds like a movie ending, but it was real. I got a modest apartment not far from the Vatican. Taught English online in the mornings, worked on cultural content in the afternoons.

And slowly, Rome became mine in a way it never would’ve if I’d gone with Dad.

He did eventually visit, maybe a year later. We had coffee, walked by the Colosseum. It wasn’t awkward, just… different. He apologized. Not in a grand way, but in that subtle, real kind of way. He said he realized he’d tried to merge two lives without thinking about who he was leaving behind.

I told him I forgave him. I did. But I didn’t need him to fix it anymore.

There was a time when I would’ve rearranged my entire life for a trip with my dad. Now I was leading my own tours, showing people corners of the city most tourists missed. Sharing little stories about hidden fountains and old bookstores, and watching their eyes light up the way mine had the first time.

And every now and then, I’d pass by that ivy-covered courtyard and smile.

Funny how the thing that nearly broke my heart ended up showing me who I really was—and what I deserved.

So here’s what I’ve learned:

Don’t wait to be chosen. Don’t wait for someone to finally make you a priority. Make yourself the priority.

Go. Even if you have to go alone. Especially if you have to go alone.

Because sometimes, the best version of the dream is the one you build for yourself.

If this story touched you, share it with someone who needs a reminder that they’re worth the trip. And if you’ve ever turned heartbreak into something beautiful—like I did—drop a comment or give this a like. You never know who needs to hear it.