I’d traveled halfway around the world, determined to start living for myself. I never expected an ordinary coffee invitation to bring me face-to-face with something I thought I’d lost over a decade ago.
I stopped so suddenly in Arthur’s living room that my purse slipped from my shoulder.
For a few seconds, I couldn’t hear the kettle in the kitchen.
I couldn’t hear the clock ticking behind me.
I could only 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 holding two coffee mugs.
I pointed above the fireplace.
His face changed.
That was when I knew this wasn’t some strange coincidence.
***
I had spent almost my entire adult life taking care of other people.
A husband, four children, and then 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 became even more useful.
That sounds bitter. Maybe it is a little.
My children weren’t terrible people, but somewhere along the way, they became used 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 pass without anyone calling just to ask how I was. My children rarely helped me.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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