The Last Morning on Viking Star: Why Saying Goodbye Hurt More Than I Expected

The alarm on my phone went off at 6:47 a.m., fourteen minutes before I actually wanted to wake up. That's been my ritual for the past seven days—hit snooze once, lie in the dark of my cabin, and pretend for just a few more minutes that I don't have to pack. But this morning felt different. This morning, I couldn't ignore the soft knocking on my door. It was Margaret. "Are you awake?" she whispered through the wood, already knowing the answer. Margaret always knew. Over the past week, she'd learned that I was a snooze-button person, a terrible dancer who showed up to the Vista Lounge shows anyway, and someone who preferred tea to coffee—a fact that had scandalized her initially, coming from a woman who'd been making her own espresso every morning since 1987. I opened the cabin door to find her in her pink Windstar Cruises polo shirt—a relic from a 2003 Caribbean voyage she'd taken with her late husband—and her hair already perfectly curled. "Come on," she said, linking her arm through mine. "We're losing the sunrise, and I promised you the best one yet." I hadn't promised any such thing, but I grabbed my key card and followed her anyway, still in my pajama pants and yesterday's mas…