The day had arrived.

In the span of twelve hours, we would leave our hotel in Paris, fly to Florence, check into the St. Regis, go to dinner—and return to the room where Matt would finally receive his birthday surprise:

The boy.

In a previous entry, I walked through the logistical gymnastics it took to pull this off. Now it was real. And somehow, I was convinced Matt had no idea. Outside of Marius and his family, almost no one knew. I made one small exception that morning—looping in Matt’s mom so she could share in the excitement—but swore her to secrecy until Matt told her himself.

Marius, of course, had the harder journey. From his small town in southern France, he would connect through Paris before flying to Florence. We were also leaving from Paris—but on an earlier flight—so we’d be in place before he even left home.

Naturally, I spiraled.

I wasn’t just tracking three flights (ours, plus his two connections). I was tracking the planes before his flights to see if they would be delayed… which would impact his flights… which would impact my sanity.

Our morning, thankfully, was uneventful. Matt—long accustomed to my travel neuroses—didn’t question why I kept refreshing the Air France app. He assumed I was checking our flight.

I was not.

As long as our plane took off, I didn’t care. I was watching his.

***

The flight to Florence was smooth. We flew business class because it was cheap (and because we are who we are), though European short-haul business is more about food than seats. We landed, grabbed our bags, and headed toward the exit to find our driver.

This is where things got tricky.

I could no longer openly check Marius’ flights every ten minutes without raising suspicion. So I had to get creative.

My biggest concern at this point wasn’t delays—it was Marius finding the driver. The St. Regis Florence had arranged everything, and while they are not known for messing things up, Florence Airport arrivals is less O’Hare and more… Topeka.

None of that mattered to me. In my mind, Marius—a 17-year-old wrestling champion—was moments away from being stranded alone in Italy.

So naturally, as we walked through arrivals, I discreetly snapped a photo of the drivers holding signs, planning to send it to him as a visual guide.

Matt saw me.

Matt: “Why are you taking a picture of the arrivals hall?”
Me: “Um… I’m reviewing our Air France experience and wanted a picture of the airport.”

Miraculously, he bought it. (To be fair, I do take a ridiculous number of photos.)

***

We arrived at the St. Regis around noon, just as Marius was boarding his first flight—which, of course, was delayed. I was dying. Thankfully, it was minimal and he would still make his connection.

Matt and I went out for a walk and found pizza for lunch. Marius was in the air, which meant—blessedly—I had nothing to check.

As we finished, he landed in Paris. I excused myself to the bathroom.

You need to take the bus to the next terminal
You have time—get food
Here’s the photo of where to meet the driver
Are you okay
Are you okay
Are you okay

It’s honestly a miracle he didn’t turn around and go home.

In fact, he later told us he was almost denied boarding because we forgot to complete parental consent forms. He wisely chose not to share that in real time, knowing I would have unraveled completely.

***

Back at the hotel, things were moving behind the scenes.

The St. Regis team had been looped in for months. This is why I love that brand—the butlers don’t just assist, they orchestrate. They briefed every staff member we might encounter:

• Do not mention a third guest
• Do not charge for a third guest
• Do not bring the extra bed until we leave for dinner

They even planted a note in our room inviting us to dessert in the Winter Garden after dinner to celebrate Matt’s birthday—perfectly positioning us for the surprise.

I added flowers. Because if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.

Dinner was intentionally strategic: Il Profeta, a place I’d been to 25 years earlier with my parents, just a five-minute walk from the hotel. If anything went wrong, we could get back quickly.

By now, I was unraveling.

Ninety minutes to go.

I was getting updates from Air France, from Marius, and from the hotel staff—who were also tracking his flights. Matt noticed I was on my phone constantly.

“I’m arguing with my mom,” I said.

He accepted this explanation immediately.

Marius’ flight was slightly delayed. We finished dinner. I needed to stall.

The owner—who somehow remembered us—offered complimentary dessert and drinks. We declined (we don’t drink, and I knew more dessert was coming). He insisted.

Tiramisu #1.

Then I suggested a walk to the river.

Marius landed.

Still time to kill.

***

Back at the hotel, the butlers were in full coordination mode.

I texted them to slow everything down. The waiter stretched out mocktails (which cost roughly a second mortgage), and the kitchen produced another complimentary tiramisu.

Tiramisu #2.

I excused myself to the bathroom.

“Hey—where the heck are you?”

No, just kidding.

“Hey, doing okay?”

He was in the car.

Twenty minutes.

***

I was shaking.

Sweating. Watching the clock. Every minute stretching.

And then—

A butler rushed past us toward the pianist.

The pianist smiled.

And began to play Happy Birthday.

I knew.

***

And then he walked in.

The boy!

Carrying a cake.

Surprise.

It could not have been more perfect.

The St. Regis Florence is perfect, and you should stay there. I have a very strong relationship with management so definitely loop me in if you do. You will still collect your points.