Twenty two years ago today I left my keys on my ex’s mom’s kitchen table in Bologna, Italy. Beneath the keys, I left a note thanking her for taking me in when I just couldn’t stay in the apartment I shared with her son after our breakup.

I put 200€ in an envelope so my ex could mail me the three big boxes full of belongings that wouldn’t fit into my two massive suitcases. Photo albums, mostly. Some clothes.

The boxes never made it back to my parents’ house in California, but I did.

I closed the heavy wooden door of Mamma Allegra’s apartment. The same door my ex had opened with a smile three years earlier, when he cooked me dinner for our first date. The apartment had been a “bed and breakfast” then, a precursor to AirBnB.

His mom had been staying at the family home in Sicily, and we had begun our relationship in that space, his family’s main residence for decades.

I’d hosted dinners with our friends there, met his extended family there. I lost my virginity there.

And I left.

The taxi met me downstairs; the air was unseasonably cool for a Bolognese summer. It had turned cold on the 10th, the day we ended our engagement.

I thought of The (then Dixie) Chicks’ song, Cold Day in July. It felt like it was written for me.

But instead of playing that album, I listened to Anastacia’s Overdue Goodbye on my red discman (remember those?) on repeat. In the taxi, waiting at the gate, on my flights, first to Amsterdam and then onto SFO.

“If love was a season, you were my winter, you were just the ice layin’ on my finger…”

I was determined to not let the breakup break me. But I had no idea how to make that happen, how to explain to my head and heart that it was really over. Especially when I had planned my future there, with him.

He had suggested taking a break, maybe getting separate apartments, not plan a wedding just yet.

I said, if it’s over, it’s over. And I walked away.

But I was worried — worried that I’d just walked away from the first man in the world who had chosen me. What if there would never be another?

I was twenty three. He was 35; the first man I’d loved, the first man who convinced me I was lovable and desirable.

What if I had just walked away from my one chance? What if that was it for me?

I wish I could return to that girl, crying in a cab on a cold day in July and tell her this: You Thrive.

You hurt, you ache, you yell in the car on long drives, and cry swimming laps in the pool.

But then, the women in your life lift you up and you begin a new chapter. You take your first steps as your new self.

You get a job in an iconic building with funny and fun people in the heart of your favorite city in the world.

You get your own apartment and ride the cable car home after happy hour.

You go to the gym. You stop smoking. You go dancing. You make out with cute boys. You make mistakes that you embarrassingly write about on MySpace. You succeed at work. You travel. You make new friends and new memories.

You bloom.

You never settle again.

And, after two years, when you’re happy in your little apartment with your routine, you meet someone who loves all of you without conditions and caveats. Who shows up for you every day with a smile and a steady sense of self.

And, after two more years of daily belly laughs, biweekly concerts, movie marathons, talking about every single thing under the sun, and the best sex of your life, he proposes to you on top of Twin Peaks, overlooking the city that caught you so kindly when you had fallen.

Girl, you thrive.

Turns out walking away from him meant walking towards yourself. Your real, true self.

I’m proud of you.

Twenty years ago this August I flew to Bologna, Italy, to begin my junior year abroad.

What was supposed to be two semesters ended up being a three year relationship with an older Italian man I thought I was going to marry.

He was thirty two, I was twenty. He wore suits, I wore slip dresses and 3” heels all over the cobblestones. He smoked Marlboro Reds, so I took up Marlboro Lights. He proposed a year into the relationship, and I told myself I could be happy with this man who never wanted to have children and never wanted to move to California (my home).

Thank goodness that didn’t happen!

It was devastating, of course, breaking up after 3 years together. But after the initial year (or more) of healing, he and I both agreed breaking up was the best thing we ever did.

We ended up being friends and cheerleaders for each other. We celebrated each other’s weddings from afar, and knew that our season together had been for learning — not for forever.

My ex died in 2016, his funeral was on my youngest son’s 2nd birthday. I wished I could have gone, and sent his mother and wife flowers and my condolences. I drove out to Sutro Baths and sobbed in my car. I didn’t want to be with him. I wanted him to still be in the world, holding a part of my history with me.

Last summer, my husband and I brought our children to Italy for the first time. At my husband’s encouragement, I suggested getting gelato with my ex’s family. They invited us to dinner at their home, instead.

I was so nervous. This was a family I thought would be mine. I was there for the births of my ex’s niece and nephew. And then, one day, it was all over. I packed my suitcases. I left boxes packed and addressed, full of my photo albums with euros to cover shipping — they never made it to me.

I worried my husband would feel awkward with my former “other family.”But he was eager to meet the people who had been such a big part of my formative years. He reassured me that it would be fine.

And, dear reader, was more than fine. It was a highlight of our trip. My husband and sons don’t speak Italian but enough of my ex’s family speak English that we all managed.

We stayed well past midnight talking, laughing, looking at old pictures of me holding their babies — who were now playing video games with my own babies upstairs!

My ex’s mom, now in her 90s, complimented me on my family, how delightful my sons are, how charming and kind my husband is. She told she was so happy for me. We both cried.

And it felt like validation for investing love all those years ago. The love I have for my ex didn’t just vanish. I have to believe love is just energy, it’s never fully gone.

The love I had for my ex (and his family) burrowed, healed, then became something new.

Gratitude for the people, the adventure, the memories.

I was so lucky to have that experience. At the time of the breakup, I remember thinking my life was over.

Oh, sweet summer Kate. It was the beginning.

Unexpected Smiling is a promise I made to my ex and his mom — our story told from my journals, emails, and memories.

I’ve been holding it alone since he died, and now I’m getting it all out of my head and heart.

Thanks for being here.