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had arrived safely.
    “I would like to say hello to him before you hang up,” Noelle said from the kitchen.
    I handed her the phone, and she graciously introduced herself to my husband and thanked him for encouraging me to, at long last, make this trek. “We have only one complaint so far,” Noelle said. I thought she was going to tell Wayne how I had slaughtered her husband’s name.
    “Our complaint is that Summer did not bring you with her. Next time both of you must come. We would love to have you as our guests. Sincerely. Anytime.”
    My heart warmed to Noelle and her hospitality all over again. I had packed for this trip so sure that this was a one-and-only lifetime adventure. My vision didn’t include even an inkling of a “next time.” I liked that she had presented the possibility to Wayne. He would know that I was keeping to what I had told him the night before I left.
    That last night at home, as I was placing my cosmetics bag into a padded corner of the suitcase, Wayne came into the bedroomand stood behind me. He cleared his throat as if he were about to launch into a private therapy session. Knowing how my husband’s counseling mind works and how the reality of my spontaneous decision had finally caught up with him, I was certain he had processed down to the last detail the psychological reasoning for what I was doing. He was about to offer me a diagnosis and possibly a course of treatment. His initial encouragement to “go have an adventure” was no longer at the forefront of his thoughts on this trip.
    Before he could impart his wisdom to me, I took his hand. “I have a pretty good idea what you’re thinking right now, but before you dive in and give me some helpful insights, I want to say this.” Now I was the one clearing my throat. “Wayne, if I am about to enter a stretch of loss in my life and if denial is one of the first stages of grief, then what I would like to do is go to Holland in denial. Complete denial. I want to be all the way there. I don’t want to have one foot here and one foot there. Does that make sense?”
    He gave a nod.
    “Whether what I’m saying is healthy or unhealthy, can you just let me do that? Be in denial for a week?”
    I could almost see the gears grinding to a halt in Wayne’s head. He adjusted his glasses and did this thing with his jaw, as if he had been hiding a piece of gum in there and now would be a good time to soften it up again. The man literally chews on his words before he speaks them. I have come to be grateful for that trait; it means he’s being deliberate.
    Wayne’s response was, “Okay. I’m here for you.”
    I smiled. My heart immediately felt lighter. The “I’m here for you” line was one I had asked Wayne to use early in our marriage. After three miscarriages and then the challenging process we went through to adopt our two older girls, I had heard every bit of resourceful wisdom from everyone. Including—and especially—from Wayne.
    When I miraculously did conceive at last, the dear man tried every tactic he could to cheer me and bolster my strength during the difficult pregnancy and long delivery. His endless advice got to be too much for my exhausted body and brain. At last I told him, while at the hospital in the midst of the birthing process, “The only thing I can handle hearing from you right now is, ‘I’m here for you.’ That’s it. No advice. No motivation techniques. Just be here. That’s all I ask.”
    In the same way he was just there for me at the hospital so many years ago, he was once again there for me the night I packed for this trip.
    When Noelle handed the phone back to me, I said “goodbye” and “I love you” to Wayne. In appreciation for his support of my choice to stay in denial, I added, “Thank you for being such a wonderful husband. I’ll be home in a week.”
    His closing comment was, “I’ll be here for you.”
    I handed the disconnected phone back to Noelle.
    “You’re smiling. Did he