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.
