This summer, my daughter turned 16. Back in January 2026, I gave her a choice: a party, or a trip to Paris and Rome, two cities she had studied in school and fallen in love with from a distance. She already had a list of places she wanted to see in each city: the Eiffel Tower, the Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps, and more.
When it came time to actually decide between a party and a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Europe, she chose the trip. I was thrilled. Not just because of what it meant for our summer, but because of what it said about her, that she valued experiences over gifts. That’s a value I’ve hoped to instill in my children since they were babies, and here it was, showing up in a real decision.
Planning this trip felt different from every trip we’d taken before, mostly because I’ve never had much desire to visit Europe. I’d always planned to save the continent for last. I travel for three reasons: food, history, and culture and if I’m honest, none of those had ever pulled me toward Europe.
But this wasn’t my trip. It was hers. And I would do anything for my daughter.
So I started researching the way I do for every international trip. Normally, that process is what gets me excited, learning about a country, its culture, its customs, until I fall a little in love with the place before I’ve even landed. This time was different. Months into planning, flights booked, hotels reserved, I still felt nothing close to excitement.
Then, two weeks before we left, something shifted. I realized this trip was never going to be about food, history, or culture, not for me, anyway. It was about bonding with my daughter.
By the time we were actually walking through Paris and Rome, that shift had already changed everything. I learned things about her I hadn’t fully known before. That she has a whole makeup routine she takes seriously, and that I need to let her have that time uninterrupted, the same way she’s learned to let me have my 4:30 a.m. mornings. That she loves history as much as I do, which is exactly how we ended up spending an afternoon wandering the Louvre. That she’s more selfless than I realized. She chose to ride a bike with me through the hot Roman streets instead of ducking into the shade, just so I wouldn’t be out there alone.
This trip was never really about what I wanted. It became a window into who my daughter is: brave, caring, quietly generous with the people she loves. I watched her, in real time, becoming a young woman.
Traveling with her turned out to be the healing I didn’t know I needed. I love Paris and Rome now, not for their food or their history or their culture, but because it’s where I got to see my daughter more clearly than I ever had before.
I love you, my daughter.
Merci de m’avoir appris.
Grazie per avermi insegnato.