Page 136 of True Blue

Then, on my last morning in Paris, room service appears at my door. Gluten-free honey crepes and eggs. And when I say I’m confused because I didn’t order room service, the kindly worker tells me that it is⁠—

“Complimentary, Mademoiselle.”

And my protest dies in my throat.

I sit in my king-sized bed, eating the delicious breakfast, and then realize there is a paper tucked underneath the plate.

A drawing.

It’s me, the Eiffel Tower in the background, my hair blowing gently in the wind as I gaze up at the impressive structure with a smile on my face. There are faceless people milling around me, but one figure catches my eye. Not a person. Far in the back is a big bear whose eyes are on me.

And at the bottom of the page, in blocky, familiar script.

Bears love honey, and I love you.

I almost fight the pleasant warmth that spreads through my chest. But I don’t. I should be mad. I should be angry, and I am, but not at this, at least.

Because, as annoying as it is to admit, I am able to experience so much more than I would have. I am able to see Notre Dame and the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower and the Seine River Cruise and try all the restaurants I wanted to, while still getting a full eight hours of sleep.

I don’t have to decide which sight I want to see more.

With the complimentary tickets, the car service, the private tours, and the meals being taken care of, I am able to do everything I want, and I have extra money to buy little trinkets to send back home to Phoebe.

I find a classy, vintage-looking cigarette holder for her that she’ll get a kick out of.

I even buy some things for Danielle and Stephanie—a little Eiffel Tower for Stephanie, who likes to collect miniature replicas of places she or her friends have visited. She sets them up on her mantle like it’s a small town.

Danielle loves sweatshirts; she’s always cold in Ireland, so I buy her a really nice one embroidered with a baguette and croissant.

Even though Teddy and I aren’t together, they always treated me so well, and I’m grateful to them for that.

By the time I board my train to Amsterdam, I feel genuinely happy and light and—okay, maybe a little excited to see what else my guardian angel has in store for me.

It’s restitution, after all.

Just restitution.

That’s it.

London and Paris felt historic.

Amsterdam and Berlin feel tragic.

But also beautiful. I walk the canals in Amsterdam as planned, take pictures, eat Dutch street food—a lot of it surprisingly safe for someone with celiac—and take in the sights.

At my hotel, waiting for me at the front desk, is an envelope.

“Complimentary?” I ask the receptionist, who looks surprised for a moment before chuckling.

“Yes. Complimentary,” she says. “Let me know if you need anything else, Mevrouw Miller.”

I wanted to go to the Anne Frank House so badly, but because of all the stress over the last two months, I missed the window to purchase tickets. It was unfortunate, but there are other things to do in Amsterdam.

And then I open the envelope. I don’t know how my guardian angel did it, but there is a ticket for me.

And I get to see the heaviest sight I think I’ve ever seen—the Annex. I am practically shaking throughout it as I walk through the same place where a little Jewish girl hid with her family and documented her thoughts. Just a child, who was then torn away from her mother, from her father, from the small, hidden world where she tried to survive, and was sent to die in a camp.

Tears sting my eyes, and I can see others on the tour are just as affected. By the time I leave, I feel emotionally drained, but so fucking grateful to have seen it.