Page 13 of Off the Grid

I’ll make you proud, Dad.

It’s been a long damn road—a grind—but I’m not stopping until I can make you proud.

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CHAPTER THREE

Camilla

Yes. I’m just praying for a great season, Dr. Bergman.

I didn’t mean to hear the conversation. The one between my mom and my dad’s doctor.

He’s fighting as hard as he can, but the stress gets the better of him lately.

She was just standing there on the side of their house when I walked up to their front door, cell to her ear, voice hushed as she talked.

He has his good days and his bad days. As long as the good outweigh the bad, then that’s all I can ask for. I do think a win would do him wonders.

The worry wavering in her voice breaks my heart.

Any kind of success would help his state of mind. The bouts of depression and anxiety are coming more frequently. I just . . . I think a successful season might help all around.

Hearing her words, her concern, her love for him . . . solidified my decision for me right then and there.

It’s what I’ve been fighting. Coming back and facing the demons that remain. That are dredged up when I swear they’ve been dead and buried.

But this is for my dad. To help him however I can in this fight, even if it’s simply to help reduce stress levels. This is for my mom, so that she can have my dad here longer and her job as a caretaker remains easier for now.

If this is the only way my parents will let me take care of them—will let me help—then it’s an opportunity I’m taking.

It’s not as if what he’s offering wasn’t once my dream. It was all I wanted to do.

But being all I wanted to do back then looks a little—okay, a lot—different now. It’s leaving a job I love. For ego’s sake, I’d love to say I’m irreplaceable. But I’m not. I’ve built a great team around me who could easily step in and do just as good of a job. That doesn’t mean the transition would be effortless though. How do you write down everything that’s in your head for someone else when you don’t even realize it’s in your head?

Then there’s the complexity of picking up my life and moving across Europe to the UK. Sure, I could leave my own place behind and keep it for when I go back home—but there are plants to be given away, friends I need to say goodbye to, delivery services I need to cancel. All the little day-to-day things you don’t think about need to be thought about and taken care of.

Not to mention packing my belongings.

Being financially fortunate affords me the opportunity to leave my furnishings behind, but I still need to pack up clothes, personal belongings, and the like.

It’s an absolute upheaval of my carefully curated world and my sanity. I’m not too thrilled about either . . . but how can I not agree?

It’s my dad. The man who has given me the chance to have anything and everything. How can I say no?

Sometimes loving someone means sacrificing yourself for their benefit.

This is one of those times.

With a resigned nod that I’m about to throw my life in a blender and hit the start button, I enter my parents’ house without letting my mom know I’m here.

It’s extravagant by most standards—big rooms, lots of light, white furniture and natural wood. It looks like it belongs in a house on the beaches of Malibu in my mom’s native country of the United States instead of an English countryside—my dad’s adopted land after Italy. Everything about it is a reflection of my parents.

Elegant but warm and welcoming. Spacious but homey.

There’s no question where my dad will be. His love for cooking has been a constant in my life and a major source of stress relief for him. The scent of garlic and basil tells me I’m more than right.

“Hmm. It smells like heaven,” I murmur as I walk up and press a kiss to his cheek. He holds out a spoon for me to taste his homemade marinara sauce—as if I had any doubt it was going to be incredible.