"Beth, I won't let you do this. You've been putting money in your Europe fund since before we were married."

"The girls both need braces more than I need to see Europe." I forced myself to smile at my husband, despite the ache twisting my heart at the idea of giving up something I'd dreamed about for years.

Worry lines marred Tom's rugged features as he looked at the pile of bills in front of him then back at me. "Maybe the business will pick up soon. You know this lousy construction market can't continue forever."

"I don't think we can wait for it. Doctor Benson says the sooner Gina and Michelle get the braces on, the better."

"But honey, I know how how important that trip is to you."

It was, I couldn't argue with that. Since I was a little girl, I had dreamed of seeing Italy, France, Spain. I was still in high school when I started putting away extra babysitting money in a fund to make my dream a reality: A few dollars here, a few dollars there, until I'd built up quite a hefty savings account.

After we married, I decided to save enough so Tom and I could both go, and then the twins came along and I knew we wouldn't enjoy it nearly as much without them. I only needed a thousand dollars more before we could all travel in style.

But the girls' teeth were more important than traipsing through the Louvre or floating the famed canals of Venice. Tom argued with me all evening but I didn't budge. We simply couldn't afford to take on anymore debt.

When I called the orthodontist's office the next day at work to make the twins' appointments, I knew I'd made the right decision. Still, a gray depression settled over me like a grimy January haze and I felt as if I'd lost something precious, as if a part of me had withered and died.

It didn't help my mood when my younger sister called to invite me to lunch. I wasn't sure I could sit and smile politely over salad while she talked about her latest trip. Kris was an international sales rep for a local software company and while my life was filled with PTA meetings and soccer games, she was staying in glamorous hotels and having power lunches at gourmet restaurants. I wanted to turn down the invitation but she had always been able to talk me around and I soon found myself being led to a table at our favorite restaurant.

"You'll never guess who I ran into in Milan last week," she said when we were seated, as casually as if she were talking about bumping into someone in the produce section of the A&P.

I swallowed my envy along with a sip of water. "Sophia Loren?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, silly. Mark Tanner. He just transferred over from New York and he's now the head of sales for my company in Italy."

My insides did a funny little twitch. Mark Tanner. Blue eyes, broad shoulders. He'd been my first love, my high school sweetheart. The last time I'd seen him had been the day he went off to college in another state and I can still remember how my heart broke as I watched him drive away.

We'd both agreed to see other people while he was in school and a few months later I met Tom at the hot dog stand at a baseball game. One look at his shy smile and I fell in love. The rest, as they say, is history.

I couldn't imagine loving my husband any more than I did. He was sweet, funny, generous, everything a woman could want. But a part of me had sometimes wondered how my life would have been different if I had married Mark, like I thought I would all those years ago.

"He asked about you," Kris said, interrupting my thoughts.

"Did he?"

She nodded and bit into a breadstick. "He's divorced, rich and as gorgeous as ever."

"Sounds like just your type."

She shrugged. "I don't think he was interested. We had dinner together and he spent the whole time talking about you. He told me to tell you to look him up if you're ever in Italy."

If I'm ever in Italy. The reminder of my now-dead dreams sent a wave of sadness crashing through me. If I had married Mark, I could have been living in Milan right now, having glamorous dinners with my gorgeous, rich husband, a little voice in my head chirped.

If I had married Mark. If I had married Mark. Even though I felt guilty for the thought, it wouldn't leave me alone throughout the rest of the day. Like the throb of a toothache, it pulsed through my mind again and again after I returned to work.

Because of my distraction, I used the wrong figures in a report that was due the next morning and didn't realize until I was nearly done. I knew I would have to work late to finish it correctly.

Angry at the delay and at myself, I was shorter than usual with Tom when I called him at the construction company's office. "Michelle had play rehearsal after school and you'll have to pick Gina up at piano lessons," I told him.

"Did you call the orthodontist's office?" he asked.

The last thing I wanted to talk about was the girls' braces. "Yes," I said curtly. "Their first appointment is scheduled for next Tuesday. I'll take the money out of savings tomorrow and put it in the checking account."

"Beth -- ''

I cut him off, not anxious to go over it all again. "I've got to run. There's a rainy-day casserole in the freezer. Just put it in the oven for an hour at 350." I hung up, then gazed at the phone, ashamed at myself for taking my mood out on him. No "Thank you," no "I love you," no "I'll see you when I get home."

I resolved to put away my disappointment and try to be in a better frame of mind by the time I got home. But when I finally drove into the garage long after dark, I was exhausted -- emotionally wrung-out -- and wanted nothing but a long, hot soak in the tub.

I opened the door of the mudroom and frowned in anger. Boots and coats and schoolbooks were scattered everywhere. How many times did I have to tell the girls to pick up after themselves?

If I had married Mark, I grumbled to myself as I gathered up the books and hung the coats on the pegs, I probably would have had a maid, a cook and a whole legion of other servants.

The mess trailed through the empty kitchen, where a mountain of dirty pots and pans had been piled in the sink and it looked like half the contents of the cupboards had been yanked out and left on the counters.

I opened my mouth, all set to yell at Tom and the girls to come clean up their disaster, when the smell of something delectable slid past my anger. Garlic, basil, tomatoes. My stomach growled noisily.

What on earth? I thought the rainy-day casserole was tuna, so why did it smell like an Italian restaurant in here? And why was my favorite Verdi opera pouring from the stereo?

"Tom?" I called. "Girls?"

"In here," Michelle sang out.

I followed her voice to the dining room we hardly ever used and stared in shock. The table had been set with my grandmother's best china and slim candles gleamed in my crystal candleholders. Tom and the girls sat grinning at me and I discovered where the heavenly aroma came from. A steaming dish of lasagna held a place of honor in the center of the table.

"What ... what's all this?" I finally asked.

"We made dinner for you," Gina said proudly.

"You made this?"

"Well, Dad did most of it," Michelle admitted. "We made the salad and the garlic bread while he cooked the lasagna."

I felt my jaw sag in disbelief. Tom cooked lasagna? He hated to cook, could barely manage microwave popcorn. It boggled my mind to think of him tackling something as complicated as lasagna. "Why?"

My burly construction worker of a husband shrugged sheepishly. "You love lasagna and we wanted to cheer you up. It wasn't that hard. I just followed the directions on the package."

They had gone to all this work for me? I felt small, mean. Guilty. While I was simmering in my self-pity all day, imagining a different life than the one I had, Tom and the girls had been hard at work trying to make me feel better.

I gazed at my family -- the girls with their beautiful, crooked little grins, and my husband, strong and gentle and loving -- and the last of my gray depression slunk away. Warm contentment replaced it, filling all the empty corners of my heart.

"Oh!" Michelle exclaimed, "We forgot to bring in dessert. We made a chocolate cake." She and Gina rushed back into the kitchen.

After they left, I walked to Tom and slid my arms around his waist. He gathered me close and I realized I didn't need a house full of servants or a villa in Milan. I had something much more important. I had love.

"Thank you," I whispered, thinking of more than just the lasagna.

He rested his chin on my head. "You know, I've been thinking. I could take another job in the evenings, just until the braces are paid off."

"You work hard enough as it is. We'd never see you if you took on another job."

"You need to go to Europe, though."

I shook my head and hugged him tightly. "I don't need to go. I'd like to, and maybe someday I still will, but I don't need to go. All that I really need is right here, at home."