As I admired his graceful brushstrokes and his brilliant mix of color, I felt a connection to him like never before. My father. Winemaker and artist. I also understood my mother’s love for him and her love for this place, her passion for the vineyards and the people of Tuscany. In the painting, I saw my future, years from now, working with the crews to prune the grapevines and study the soil, to plan the harvests. I knew in that moment that I would spend my life preserving something beloved and valuable.

At the same time, I would build something new, looking forward, not back. I was already working on a special blend of wine to commemorate Anton’s love for my mother, which had never been celebrated before. I would paint the label myself.

And though I tried to let go of certain things and live without regret, I was beginning to accept that regret would always be a part of my life. I was only human, after all, and as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t escape it. What I decided was that I would not let it consume or define me. For the most part, I was at peace with how my life had unfolded, and I would embrace my regret—and my ability to work at forgiveness—as evidence of my humanity. I would wake up each morning and count my blessings.

Rolling up the canvas, I smiled, then slid it back into the wooden crate with the others. I then returned to my own work in progress on the easel. Tilting my head to the side, I narrowed my eyes, taking in the shapes and proportions of my sketch. I tried to envision the color palette and saw blue, yellow, and orange for the setting sun and different shades of white for the clouds. Silver for the wing of the airplane. It was a rather heavenly view.

Yes, there was much promise there. I had every reason to believe it was going to be a beautiful painting.