Chapter 1: Maddie
The rental car's GPS has been saying ‘recalculating’ for the past twenty minutes, which is either a very bad sign or a very Italian one. I'm choosing to believe it's the latter because I'm nothing if not an optimist, even when I'm driving up what appears to be a goat path masquerading as a road.
"Turn right in fifty meters," the robotic voice announces with suspicious confidence.
I peer through the dusty windshield at the narrow stone path ahead. "Right where, exactly? Into that olive tree?"
But then I see it, a weathered wooden sign that reads "Monte Vento" in faded paint, and my heart does a little skip. This is it. This is actually happening. After twenty-five years of playing it safe, of following every rule and checking every box, I'm finally doing something completely insane.
I'm about to own a house in Sicily for one euro.
The village appears around the next bend like something out of a postcard that's been left in the sun too long. Stone houses with red tile roofs cascade down the hillside toward a small harbor where fishing boats bob lazily in the afternoon light. It's absolutely perfect, in that authentic, slightly crumbling way that screams "rustic charm" and "no tourists."
I pull over next to what I hope is a parking area and not someone's private driveway, then grab my phone to take a selfie. The Wi-Fi signal is nonexistent, but that's fine. This moment is too perfect for social media anyway.
"Welcome, Madison Sullivan, property owner," I announce to my reflection in the rearview mirror.
The key pickup was supposed to happen at the mayor's office, which according to my printed directions should be in the main square. I shoulder my oversized purse, packed with enough emergency supplies to survive a small apocalypse and start walking.
The narrow streets are made of stones that have probably been here since the Renaissance, which is charming until I realize my sneakers have zero traction. I slide gracefully into a wall, catching myself with what I hope is dignity.
"Smooth, Madison. Very smooth."
A few elderly men sitting outside a café look up from their espresso and animated conversation. One of them says something in rapid Italian that I don't catch, but his expression seems concerned. Maybe they're not accustomed to seeing Americans stumble around their village like drunk penguins.
I wave enthusiastically. "Hi! Hello!"
They smile and wave back, so I'm calling it a win.
The main square is tiny but perfectly picturesque, dominated by a church that looks old enough to have hosted actual saints and a fountain that's definitely seen better centuries. The mayor's office is a small building with peeling paint and a door that's propped open with a ceramic donkey.
Inside, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and impressive arm jewelry looks up from her desk. "Signorina Sullivan?"
"That's me!" I bounce on my toes, probably looking like an overexcited golden retriever. "I'm here for the key pickup. For the house? The lottery house?"
She smiles warmly and gestures toward a chair. "Yes, yes! One moment, please."
She disappears into a back room, leaving me alone with my excitement and a poster advertising what appears to be a festival involving a lot of lemons.
I can’t believe this is really happening. I'm actually doing this.
Take that, Derek, with your "Madison never takes risks" and "Madison is too predictable." If only he could see me now, sitting in a mayor's office in Sicily, about to collect the keys to my own house.
She returns with an official-looking folder and an ornate iron key that looks like it belongs to a castle door in a fairy tale.
"Here you go!" She places the key in my palm with ceremony. "Up the hill, past the church." She points toward the window and makes a winding motion with her finger.
"Thank you!" I clutch the key like it's made of gold instead of iron. "This is so exciting."
Her smile is genuinely warm as she hands me a small map of the village. "Welcome home, Ms. Sullivan.”
Welcome home.
The words make my eyes water with happiness. Home. After twenty-five years of living in other people's spaces, my parents' house, college dorms, and shared apartments with roommates who left passive-aggressive notes about dirty dishes, I'm finally going to have a home that's all mine.
I practically skip out of the mayor's office, clutching my key and map like winning lottery tickets. Which they are, since I won the right to buy the house for one single euro in a lottery.
The afternoon sun is golden and warm, and the village looks even more beautiful than when I arrived. Children are playing in the square, their laughter echoing off the stone buildings, while their mothers chat nearby. Everything feelsperfect and welcoming and exactly like the fresh start I was hoping for.
