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I knew this day was coming. I had been preparing for it for weeks. This day had been on my mind from the moment my mother and I boarded that flight to London, with our massive suitcases in tow that just barely skimmed under the airline weight limit. It hovered over me the entire 9 hours of flying, like a single cloud blocking what would’ve otherwise been a clear day. I was determined to make the most of these 17 days we had together. These last few weeks had been a type of contentment that I had never experienced before. I felt a pure sense of bliss while travelling through England and France with my mother. We had always planned to do a European trip together. But each moment we shared held the smallest hint of wistfulness, a tiny nagging that this time wouldn’t last forever. I slowly prepared myself for the day this adventure would come to an end. I savoured each and every moment, taking a mental picture of the sights before me, and noting how I felt – from driving along the winding roads of the English countryside, to standing on the D-day Juno Beach, watching the waves rush in and creep back out again, trying to grasp how it would’ve felt to be there 75 years earlier; from seeing a musical in London’s West End, a dream of mine since I first stood on a theatre stage, to witnessing the Eiffel Tower sparkle for that first time, my mother and I failing to hold back our gasps of excitement at this monument of true Parisian elegance. We created memories with each passing day, and I tried my best to keep our hazy western European dream going as long as possible. Reality hit when we finally arrived in my new home of Dijon, France. In just a few short days, my mother would get on a plane back to Canada, and I wouldn’t see her again for five months. It felt so foreign to me. For my entire life, she had been just across the house, only seconds away from me. She felt it too, I could tell. We both silently made a pact not to mention September 3rd until the day actually arrived. We explored my new city together, learning how the tram system worked, walking the route to my new school, and making the dull, grey dorm room I’d been assigned feel something like a home. Finally, the day came. We walked side-by-side to the train station, and I told myself I wasn’t going to cry, because she needed to see that I was going to be alright. But we both broke down when it was time for her to board her train. As I stood on the platform with tears streaming down my face, the conductor’s whistle blew, and I waved until her face looking out the window disappeared. My hand slowly returned to my side. She was gone. I thought I’d be full of dread, that all the fear of being alone that had been building up over the last few weeks would finally break the surface. But it didn’t. Instead, I felt excited. I had been given the opportunity to live on my own in a new city, a new country, and a new continent. This newfound sense of unknown was tempting me to explore. I walked along the Burgundy-stone pedestrian streets of my new city, and each day it became a little more familiar. I created a new routine for myself that normalized the experience of being in a country that is stereotypically known for being unforgiving towards English-speakers. The shop owners began to recognize my face. My French got stronger, and the locals proved to be the opposite of their stereotypes, always offering a helping hand, or giving directions when I’d garbled my translation. I made friends, traveled to other countries, saw some of the most stunning sights, and gained independence. And the most exciting part of it all? When I returned to Canada in five months, I would get to tell my mother all about it.