Elena was twelve the first time she realized vacations weren't always fun.
The family jet landed in Paris, and everything looked like a postcard. The Eiffel Tower sparkled far off, the hotel suite had a view of the river, and fresh croissants sat on a silver tray with little jars of jam.
They had a schedule. Always.
Morning at the Louvre with a private guide pointing out paintings Elena didn't understand. Afternoon shopping on some fancy street, where Victor bought her clothes she didn't pick, and Caroline fussed over every fit. Evening dinner at a place with too many forks and waiters who spoke soft.
Elena smiled for the photos, said thank you in French from her lessons. It was pretty. But it felt like work.
Victor spent half the time on his phone, talking about deals and the company. "This is how you learn the world," he'd say, like the trip was a class, not a break.
Caroline stuck close, holding her hand in crowds, eyes darting like something bad could happen any minute. "Stay with me, sweetheart. The world isn't always safe."
Elena wanted to wander off, eat a crepe from a street cart, get a little lost like kids in her stories. But she didn't. She was good.
By fifteen, the trips all blurred together. Italy with old ruins, Switzerland with snowy mountains, beaches in the Maldives with private huts.
Perfect places.
But the emptiness grew.
She overheard them one night in a Rome hotel, voices through the thin door.
Victor sounded tired. "She'd be fifteen now too. Imagine that."
Caroline's voice cracked. "Don't, Victor. We have Elena."
A long quiet. Then Victor again. "Yes. But the company… it needs a strong hand. A son would have understood."
Elena froze in the hallway, heart thumping. A son? What son?
The next day at the Colosseum, she asked Caroline while they walked.
"Who's the boy Dad talks about sometimes?"
Caroline's face went still. She squeezed Elena's hand. "No one, baby. Just old memories."
Elena didn't push. But it stuck with her, like the way Victor looked at her during business talks, like she was almost right but not quite.
She started sketching on those trips. Hidden in her notebook, drawings of street people, real faces, messy lives. Not the perfect ones her parents planned.
The vacations were beautiful.
But she felt alone in them.
Every time.