“Then I don’t get it. How did you know?”

He paused, as if considering whether he should answer the question. “Years ago, when you were still a baby, I asked one of the night nurses to go through your mother’s desk and see if there were any letters from Tuscany. She found a half-written letter to Anton, and she showed it to me.”

I wanted desperately to understand. “You didn’t try to talk to Mom about it?”

“No,” he replied. “I was afraid that if she opened up to me, it would be like opening a floodgate. She would tell me the truth—that she loved him and wanted to be with him—and I would have no choice but to let her go.”

All at once, I realized the consequences of the secrets we had kept from each other. My parents had never really known each other on a soul-deep level, not since my father’s accident. They had lived in a constant state of denial and had hidden everything from each other.

Where did that leave me now that everything was out in the open?

I stood up and paced around the room.

“What will you do?” Dad asked, watching me intently, nervously. He pressed the button on the bed to raise himself to a more upright sitting position.

“I’m not sure,” I replied. “I just found out I inherited a fortune, and I have a half brother and sister and other family members living in London. My head is still spinning.”

Dottie appeared in the doorway just then. She held a Mickey Mouse mug and was bobbing a tea bag up and down on the end of a string. “So spill the beans, Fiona. I want to hear everything. Did you see the queen at Piccadilly Circus? Or William and Kate at Harrods?”

I gave Dad a look, then responded to Dottie’s question. “No, because I didn’t go to London. I went to Italy.”

“Italy.” She looked bewildered. “But I thought the conference was in London.”

I strode toward her. “It’s a long story. Why don’t you come in and sit down with us? We’ll tell you everything. Won’t we, Dad.”

He nodded as she entered the room.

I was up early the following morning and found Dad in front of the computer in the den, surfing the internet. Dottie was off, and Jerry was in the kitchen.

“Good morning,” I said, still in my pajamas and slippers. I took a seat on the sofa under the window.

“Good morning,” Dad replied, turning his motorized chair around to face me. “I was just doing some research.”

“About what?”

“Wineries in Tuscany. Maurizio Wines in particular.”

I understood the magnitude of what he was telling me, because I knew how he had always given images of Italy a wide berth. They did not evoke pleasant memories for him.

“And?”

“And I think you have just become a very rich woman.”

I tipped my head back and looked up at the ceiling. “Yes, I have, and I still can’t believe it. Now that I’m back here, it doesn’t even seem real. It feels like a dream.”

Dad wheeled himself closer. “But it’s not a dream. You are the daughter of a very successful businessman.”

“That may be true,” I replied, meeting his gaze. “But I am also the daughter of a strong and brave survivor who beat all the odds that were stacked against him.”

“I survived because I was selfish,” Dad replied.

“In some ways, but not all. You weren’t acting selfishly when you looked at me like I was the best thing that ever happened to you. You made me feel special and loved. That’s what I want to remember, Dad. It’s what I need to focus on.”

“Me too,” he replied. “And you were special. You still are. Because if you can sit here in this house and forgive me for everything that I . . .”

“Stop, Dad,” I said gently. “Of course I’m going to forgive you. How can I not? Life is rough for everyone, and it’s complicated. It’s full of hairpin turns we don’t see coming. You know that better than anyone. You suffered a terrible trauma. And we all make mistakes. Mom certainly wasn’t perfect. She left a fair bit of destruction in her path.”

“Yes, but she gave me you.”

“And she gave me you.”

I realized in that moment that I was going to have to find a way to accept how my life had played out and let go of the frustration and regret about not meeting Anton. This was my reality going forward. What good could come from grappling forever with “could have beens”? Every life was full of “could have beens.” The best we could do was make the most of what was and what had been.

At least I finally knew the truth about my mother’s life, and I was no longer lying to my father. There was a tremendous relief in that—in the purging of secrets and the guilt that accompanied them. I felt somehow lighter, as if I had used a shovel to excavate my soul.

Dad and I regarded each other in the rays of the early-morning sunlight through the window, and I believed he felt lighter, too—that he was relieved to have let the truth out of its long confinement.

“What are you going to do with the inheritance?” he asked.

I thought about it for a moment. “Well. That’s an interesting question. I should probably tell you that I received an offer on the winery, and I did consider selling. It was a lot of money. Ninety million euros.” I shook my head in disbelief.

“Fiona . . .”

“I know. I can barely conceive of that much money. Selling it would have probably been the easiest thing. Then I could have come home, stayed here with you, and we’d have more money than we’d know what to do with. We could buy a bigger house and pay off the van . . .” I rubbed the back of my neck. “But Dad, I loved being there. I can’t explain it, and I hope this isn’t hurtful to you when I say it, but I feel like Tuscany is in my blood. I loved the people and the way of life. I loved learning about the vineyards and the wine-making process and, of course, drinking it.” I gave him a sheepish smile. “And I have a half sister named Sloane, and she has two children, and I want to get to know them better. If I keep the winery, I could learn how to run it and . . .” I faced him and spoke openly. “I could move to Italy and build a pretty amazing life for myself there.”

Dad stared at me intently, and I understood that this had always been his greatest fear and worst nightmare—that he would be left behind. Alone. That Mom would leave him for Anton, and I would disappear too.

I turned on the sofa to look out the window and watched the young palm trees in our yard as they blew in the wind, swaying and bending. My future lay before me, unpredictable like the force and direction of the wind at any given moment. I didn’t want the wind to be destructive. I wanted it to lift me up and carry me, to give me the push I needed to figure out what I was supposed to be doing with my life. I wanted it to lift us both.

Then I turned back to face Dad, and my indecision seemed to hang in the air between us.

With a note of conviction, Dad touched the button on the joystick and drove his chair closer. “Then you should do it. Go and make great wine in Italy. And don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine here, as long as I know you’re happy. You’ll call?”

I stared at him with a strange, buoyant feeling, as if I had just fallen from a great height and bounced like a balloon.