We were in Maggie Valley for a long weekend—a much-needed and deserved respite at the tail end of our business’s busy season amid prepping it for new ownership and downsizing our home as we get ready to travel full-time with our Airstream. And we were treating ourselves to an authentic Italian meal at Frankie’s, a popular must-do in this beautiful mountain town.
We create the lessons to be learned, the happiness to be sought, the love to be shared, the demons to be conquered.
Seated in the lounge area with a baby grand piano not far from us, a pianist was tickling the ivory with relaxing, unfamiliar melodies as I enjoyed a glass of pinot grigio and fresh bruschetta piled high on made-from-scratch flatbread. When our salads were served, the musician began a new song, and soon my face was contorting, struggling to hold back a torrent of tears. I wanted to run to the restroom to have a good cry, but I would have had to pass through the entire crowded restaurant. So, I just sat there, pouring my attention and energy into my salad, hoping guests at nearby tables didn’t notice the droplets streaming down my face.
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