I had traveled halfway around the world because, for once in my life, I wanted to do something entirely for myself.

I never expected an ordinary invitation for coffee to bring me face-to-face with something I thought I had lost more than twenty years earlier.

The moment I stepped into Arthur’s living room, I stopped.

My purse slipped from my shoulder.

For several seconds, I heard nothing.

Not the kettle in the kitchen.

Not the clock behind me.

All I could see was the painting above his fireplace.

A small cottage beside a lake.

Two pine trees leaning toward the water.

A crooked wooden dock.

And in the bottom corner, nearly hidden in the grass, the initials:

R.M.

My late husband’s initials.

I knew that painting.

I knew every line.

Every brushstroke.

I had watched Robert paint it.

And for more than twenty years, I had believed it was gone.

“Abigail?”

Arthur’s voice came from behind me.

I turned.

He was holding two coffee mugs.

I pointed toward the fireplace.

“Where did you get that?”

His expression changed.

And immediately, I knew this wasn’t a coincidence.

For most of my adult life, I had taken care of other people.

First my husband.

Then our four children.

Later, our grandchildren.

I worked as a school secretary for thirty-two years.

I packed lunches, picked up sick children, babysat whenever someone called, gave rides, helped with bills, and loaned money that rarely found its way back.

After Robert died twelve years earlier, I somehow became even more useful.

My children weren’t bad people.

But over time, they became used to the idea that I would always be available.

If Karen needed someone to watch her boys, she called.

If David was short on rent, he called.

If Melissa needed help with a birthday party, she called.

If Eric needed a ride from the airport, I was usually the first person he contacted.

But sometimes weeks passed without anyone calling simply to ask how I was doing.

I told myself that was normal.

Everyone was busy.

Families depended on one another.

Then one Tuesday morning, I stood in my kitchen looking at my calendar.

Almost every square was filled.

My grandson’s soccer tournament.

Melissa’s dentist appointment because I was watching her daughter.

A reminder to transfer money to David.

Errands.

Appointments.

Other people’s plans.

Nothing on that calendar belonged to me.

I was sixty-nine years old.

And suddenly I realized I had spent most of my life waiting for “someday.”

Someday Robert and I would visit Italy.

Someday we would see Japan.

Someday we would travel through Australia.

Someday I would sit in a café in Paris and order something I couldn’t pronounce.

Robert and I had talked about traveling after retirement.

Then he got sick.

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