Take me with you. For laughs, for luck, for the unknown. Take me with you.
— Peter S. Beagle

Lately, I can’t stop thinking about that phrase: Take me with you.

It’s a longing I’ve carried since childhood. Back then, I was either clinging to my mother’s leg, begging my dad to take me to work with him, or pestering my older sister to let me tag along. 

But what is this inclination, really?

Sure, some of it is evolutionary, strength in numbers, and all that, but I believe it goes deeper. We’re wired for community, for rich, messy, wonderful relationships, and yes, a wickedly fabulous social life. We want our posse, our people, not just to witness our lives, but to celebrate them alongside us.

Because honestly, what’s the point of the journey if you’ve reached the mountaintop and there is no one to share your Cheetos with?

Eventually, most of us find that one person we want to travel with through life, and suddenly, we’re asking again: Take me with you. If we choose well, have a little chemistry, and a few common interests, it becomes one of the grandest adventures of all time.

They call it marriage. I call it a complicated cocktail of courage, joy, compromise, wine, forgiveness, laughter, stubborn optimism, more wine, and the quiet decision to love even when it’s hard — two brave souls and one GPS.

I’ll be honest. Marriage is not for wimps; it gave me four incredible kids, and at times, indigestion. It also gave me an intimate acquaintance with sleep deprivation, unsolicited parenting advice, and the kind of personal growth that feels less like blooming and more like being yanked through a hedge backwards. Right?

But it also taught me to give more than I take, sometimes with grace, sometimes with clenched teeth. On occasion marriage is sunsets, roses, and belly laughs. More commonly, it’s charmingly mundane. And on rare, tempestuous days, it’s basically a cockfight with coffee.

Nobody’s perfect. But some of us get pretty damn close. Bahaha.

So how did we end up in Portugal — with our entire family? 

As they say at Mastercard, “Airfare $2,500, new clothes $500, rental car $700, memories that will last a lifetime — Priceless.”

We rented a villa along the lush Costa do Estoril for one luminous reason: to witness the vows, rings, and sacred commitment between my son Tony and his radiant bride, Thalita. The ceremony was held in a sun-dappled garden, officiated by the lovely Alicia. From the first word to the last, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Tony and Thalita’s vows were so touching and heartfelt, I had to remind myself to breathe. 

After the ceremony, about a hundred guests floated up to a grand balcony for wine, tapas, surreal views of the Atlantic, and the sprawling gardens below. Imagine sipping Portuguese green wine in a breeze that smelled faintly of orange blossoms while nibbling cheese that may have ruined all the other cheeses in my life.

The dinner was a symphony of flavors — fresh fish, fragrant rice, meats that made you want to write poetry, salads dressed in citrus and sunshine, and a parade of desserts that required no explanation, only reverence. A fruit bar appeared as dancing began. Then a cheese table. And, because why not, hot dogs at the end of the night. (Portugal knows how to party.)

The music pulled everyone onto the dance floor, from toddlers to teenagers, young couples, and grandparents alike. At one point, I saw a conga line led by “someone” holding a glass of champagne and a baby monitor.

Our villa was just a half mile from the venue. A proper estate, generous, serene, and wrapped in the warm charm of red tiled roofs, fountains, spacious lawns, and olive trees. It came with a swimming pool, soccer court, covered dining terrace, and enough beds to host a sleepover for a small village.

I watched my grandchildren cannonball into the deep blue pool, shrieking with joy, the way only feral kids do. From my lounge chair, I could watch both my granddaughters and the glittering Atlantic. Not bad for a Tuesday.

Most mornings, Larry would slip out early and return with eggs, pastries, cheese, coffee, and bless his heart, more wine. He ferried people to and from the train station, juggled the villa’s iffy electrical system like a pro, and, along with his lovely wife (Bahaha), hosted a bachelor party, rehearsal dinner, welcome gathering, and wrapped things up with a mimosa brunch.

Dante, meanwhile, kept a cold keg on tap, nailed his best-man duties, and won the latest sleeper award. Nic cooked breakfast for the whole family every morning. Julie cleaned the kitchen several times without being asked. The granddaughters made everyone smile, especially baby Dorian.

Tim and Kelley made the transatlantic trek with a ten-week-old in tow. Ten weeks. Then, days later, Tim flew back to Vegas to do a live podcast for ESPN, only to return again for the wedding. He was still able to speak in full sentences and looked shockingly debonair in his suit. Kelley is a fricken rock star; she kept Dorian fed, changed, and adored, no small feat doing it solo.

During those two weeks, every emotion I’ve ever felt paid me a visit — joy, awe, deep gratitude, pride so fierce it made my chest ache. Watching our kids, all grown, gathering, laughing and vying for time together was heartwarming — it’s every parent’s damn dream.

Julie and Kelley climbed into my bed one morning with their coffee and baby Dorian, and there we sat gossiping and giggling like teenagers. As a family, we hiked into town for tapas and cappuccino, cocktails at Tony and Thalita’s new home, beach days, chicken in Caicais, shopped the local markets, sipped Portuguese wines, and lingered over dinners at the villa that stretched into the wee hours of the night.

I tried to soak up every detail, snapping mental images and filing them away in my heart.

And yes, the icing on this already over-iced cake? So many of our dearest friends and extended family flew all the way to Portugal to join the celebration. It felt… sacred. Magical. I’ll never be able to explain it fully because it’s something you can only feel, not describe.

And still, I want more.

After the parties were over, the refrigerator empty, all of us filled with joy and exhaustion, the kids began to scatter: Dante home to work, Kelley and Tim back to New York, Julie and Nic off to Porto. Larry and I locked up the villa and retreated to a quiet hotel in Cascais.

We woke up with nothing to do and nowhere to be. It was heaven, but like they say, all good things must come to an end.

As we boarded our flight home, I carried a quiet ache within me. I wanted to hold time still. To gather everyone under one roof again. To merge the people we used to be with who we’ve become — and marvel that our love has never wavered.

Take me with you might be my new philosophy on life.

Even now, I don’t want to be left behind. Take me with you — in your memories, in your adventures, in the life you are building — remember to carry the foundation we built together in that little house in Campbell. And when we are forced to part, again and again, I will be standing on the front porch of life whispering through my tears, “Take me with you.”

I’m Living in the Gap, loving and longing to always be with you.