I moved to this island for the sunshine and the promise of endless creative freedom. That’s what I told my kids, anyway. “Your father always wanted this, a quiet place to make beautiful things.” They bought it. My siblings back in the old country? They just think I’ve finally gone soft in the head, spending my pension on an adobe villa instead of sending it all back. The truth is, I wanted to disappear. Escape the expectations, the constant weighing of my every choice against tradition. Here, nobody cares. Nobody knows who I am. The graphic design work is steady. Mostly resort brochures, local dive shops. Bright colors, happy people. I can make anything look like paradise. And in many ways, it is. The ocean is genuinely spectacular. The air smells of frangipani. I can walk to the market and buy a mango that tastes like pure sunshine. My little studio overlooks the sea. It’s exactly what the brochures promise. Except I’m here alone. I call my eldest daughter every Sunday. She asks about the weather, about my art. She says, “Don’t you miss us, Abba?” and I always say, “Of course, habibti, but this is my adventure now.” I never tell her about the quiet nights, the way the sound of the waves can feel like a shroud instead of a lullaby. I never tell her about the ache. It’s a dull, constant throb behind my ribs, a physical manifestation of all the miles between us. My grandchildren are growing up, learning to ride bikes, losing their first teeth. I see it all in pictures. Sometimes I laugh, a dry, humorless sound. Here I am, a septuagenarian "digital nomad," living the dream. The dream is a lot lonelier than they advertised. I came here to find myself, or maybe to lose the version of myself everyone else created. Instead, I just found this old man, sitting in a beautiful house, watching the sun set over an empty horizon. I think of my mother, God rest her soul. She would have called me a fool. Maybe she was right.