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.
