I’d traveled halfway around the world, determined to finally start living for myself. I never imagined a simple invitation for coffee would bring me face-to-face with something I thought I’d lost more than a decade ago.
I stopped so abruptly in Arthur’s living room that my purse slipped from my shoulder.
For several seconds, I couldn’t hear the kettle boiling in the kitchen.
I couldn’t hear the clock ticking behind me.
All I could do was stare above his fireplace.
And for more than 20 years, I’d believed it was gone.
“Abigail?”
Arthur’s voice came from behind me.
I turned.
He was standing there holding two coffee mugs.
I pointed toward the fireplace.
“Where did you get that?”
His expression changed.
That was when I realized this wasn’t some strange coincidence.
I had spent nearly my entire adult life caring for other people.
A husband, four children, and eventually grandchildren.
I worked as a school secretary for 32 years, packed lunches, picked up sick kids, loaned money whenever someone needed it but rarely got it back, and babysat whenever someone called.
After my husband, Robert, died twelve years ago, I somehow became even more useful.
That sounds bitter. Maybe it is a little.
My children weren’t terrible people, but somewhere along the way, they’d grown accustomed to me always being available.
If Karen needed someone to watch her boys, she called.
If David was short on rent, he called.
If Melissa needed help setting up a birthday party, she called.
If Eric needed a ride from the airport, somehow I was always the first option.
But weeks could go by without anyone calling simply to ask how I was. My children rarely helped me.
I told myself that was normal.
Families were busy.
After my husband died, I struggled for years to feel like myself again.
Then one Tuesday morning, I stood in my kitchen staring at a wall calendar filled with everyone else’s plans.
My grandson’s soccer tournament.
