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.

Our someday ended before it ever began.

So I made a decision.

I sold my house.

Then I booked a trip around the world.

My children reacted as though I had committed some terrible betrayal.

“You’re being selfish, Mom,” Karen said.

“What about the grandchildren?” Melissa asked.

David stared at me.

“You’re really going to waste all that money traveling?”

Then Eric said the thing that surprised me most.

“That house was supposed to stay in the family.”

I looked at him.

“It was my house.”

He didn’t like that answer.

When I refused to cancel my plans, Karen and David stopped speaking to me for a while.

That hurt.

But I went anyway.

I told myself that while I could still walk through airports, carry my suitcase, climb stairs, and explore without asking anyone’s permission, I was going to see as much of the world as possible.

Australia was my fourth stop.

That was where I met Arthur.

He was seventy-one, widowed, gentle, and possessed the kind of dry humor that took a second before it made you laugh.

We met in a secondhand bookstore in Melbourne.

We both reached for the same detective novel.

He looked at my hand resting over his.

“I suppose at our age, fighting over it would be undignified.”

“At our age?”

He smiled.

“Fair point. You look thirty-five.”

“Now I know you’re dishonest.”

He laughed.

We had coffee that afternoon.

Then again two days later.

Soon we were taking long walks, browsing bookstores, listening to jazz, and arguing about whether roses were overrated.

“They’re needy,” Arthur told me.

“They’re flowers.”