I had traveled halfway around the world because I finally wanted to start enjoying my own life. I never imagined that a seemingly harmless invitation for coffee would confront me with something I had believed was lost forever for more than ten years.
I stopped so abruptly in the middle of Arthur’s living room that my handbag slipped off my shoulder.
For several seconds, I couldn’t even hear the sound of the kettle boiling in the kitchen.
Even the ticking of the clock behind me seemed to have suddenly stopped.
All I could do was stare at the object above his fireplace.
In an instant, I froze in the middle of Arthur’s living room.
For more than twenty years, I had been convinced that it no longer existed.
“Abigail?”
Arthur’s voice came from behind me.
Slowly, I turned around.
He was holding two cups of coffee.
With a trembling finger, I pointed toward the mantelpiece.
“Where did you get that?”
His expression changed instantly.
At that moment, I realized there was no possible way this could be an ordinary coincidence.
I had believed it was gone forever.
I had spent almost my entire adult life taking care of other people.
First my husband and our four children, and later our grandchildren as well.
For thirty-two years, I worked as a school secretary. At the same time, I packed lunches, picked up sick children, lent money that I usually never saw again, and stepped in as a babysitter whenever someone called.
Nearly my entire adult life had been devoted to other people’s needs.
After my husband Robert died twelve years earlier, I became even more indispensable to my family.
Perhaps that sounds bitter. And maybe there really is a little bitterness in it.
My children weren’t bad people. But at some point, they had simply grown accustomed to the fact that their mother was always available.
Whenever Karen needed someone to watch her boys, she called me.
Whenever David struggled to pay his rent, he contacted me, too.
Perhaps that sounds a little bitter.
When Melissa needed help preparing for a birthday party, my assistance was simply taken for granted.
And whenever Eric needed a ride from the airport, my phone number was always the first one that came to mind.
Yet sometimes entire weeks passed without any of my children calling just to ask how I was doing. I rarely received help from them.
For a long time, I told myself that this was simply part of family life.
After all, everyone was busy.
Somehow, I was always their first point of contact.
After Robert’s death, I had spent years struggling to feel like myself again.
One ordinary Tuesday morning, I suddenly found myself standing in my kitchen, looking at the calendar on the wall. It was packed with appointments, but not a single one was really about me.\
– My grandson’s soccer tournament.\
– Melissa’s dentist appointment, during which I was supposed to watch her daughter.\
– A reminder to transfer money to David.\
My entire calendar consisted of obligations to other people.
For years, I had been trying to find myself again.
And suddenly, I realized that I was already 69 years old and had spent much of my life waiting for someday.
Someday, we would travel to Italy.
Someday, I would see Japan.
Someday, we would visit Australia.
And someday, I would sit in a Parisian café and order something whose name I couldn’t even pronounce properly.
Robert and I had always talked about exploring the world after he retired.
But then he became ill.
Our dreamed-of someday was over before it had even begun.
I had spent my entire life waiting for a better time.
So I made a decision that would completely change the life I had known until then.
I sold our house and booked a trip around the world.
My children reacted as though I had just sold an important historical landmark!
“Mom, you’re really only thinking about yourself!” Karen accused me.
“And what about the grandchildren?” Melissa asked indignantly.
David reacted even more strongly.
“You’re not seriously going to waste all that money on a bunch of trips, are you?”
I had made a life-changing decision.
Then Eric lost his temper, too, and said something I still haven’t forgotten.
“That house was supposed to stay in our family!”
I stared at him in disbelief.
“But it’s my house.”
He wasn’t at all satisfied with that answer.
When I refused to abandon my plans despite all their accusations, Karen and David even blocked my phone number!
That hurt me far more than I let anyone see.
Nevertheless, I stood by my decision.
He didn’t like my answer one bit.
I told myself that I wanted to see the world while I could still walk through airports without difficulty, carry my own suitcase, climb stairs without my knees protesting, and explore unfamiliar places.
Just this once, I wanted to do something entirely for myself.
Australia was the fourth country on my itinerary.
And that was where I met Arthur.
For once, I wanted to follow my own wishes.
Arthur was 71 years old, widowed, kind, and possessed a wonderfully dry sense of humor that sometimes took a moment to understand.
We met in Melbourne, in a small secondhand bookstore.
As luck would have it, we both reached for the same mystery novel at exactly the same time.
He looked at my hand, which was almost resting on top of his.
“At our age, it would probably be rather undignified to fight over this.”
“At our age?”
He gave me a mischievous smile.
We met in a little bookstore in Melbourne.
“Of course, you’re absolutely right. You don’t look a day over thirty-five,” he replied.
“Well, now I know you can’t be trusted.”
Arthur laughed heartily.
That very afternoon, we had coffee together. Two days later, we did it again.
Then we took a long walk through a garden, where Arthur spent approximately twenty-five minutes trying to convince me that roses were completely overrated.
“Now I understand that you’re not particularly committed to telling the truth.”
“You’re simply far too demanding,” he explained.
“Arthur, they’re flowers.”
“Exactly! Imagine being that demanding and not even paying rent.”
I laughed more in Arthur’s company than I had in all the previous years combined.
He loved jazz music. Just like me.
We were also both passionate about old movies and gardening.
“Roses are far too much trouble.”
Arthur devoured mystery novels, was a terrible tomato grower, and had spent thirty-eight years with his wife Anne before she passed away.
We didn’t try to appear younger than we were, and neither of us had any interest in silly games.
Instead, we spoke openly about the people we had lost.
About our children.
About decisions we regretted.
And about loneliness.
We told each other about our late spouses.
Once, during a late lunch, Arthur said, “Nobody prepares you for the fact that grief becomes quieter over the years, but never disappears completely.”
I immediately understood what he meant.
After we had spent several afternoons together, he finally invited me to his house.
“I have an entire shelf full of old records that I’m sure you’d enjoy,” he explained. “Why don’t you come over for coffee? Then I can show them to you.”
By then, I trusted him.
I understood his words all too well.
Arthur’s house was cozy and completely unremarkable. There were books everywhere, the furniture didn’t necessarily match, and numerous family photographs hung on the hallway walls.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable in the meantime.”
I stepped into his living room and froze.
Directly above the fireplace hung a painting.
“Make yourself at home.”
It depicted a small vacation cottage beside a lake. Two pine trees leaned down toward the water.
There was also a crooked wooden dock. In the bottom right corner, almost hidden in the grass, were the initials “R. M.”
It was Robert’s painting! The very painting I had believed had been destroyed!
I knew every single brushstroke. After all, I had watched my husband paint it.
My hands began to tremble.
It was my late husband’s painting!
Arthur set down the two cups.
“Abigail, please sit down.”
“No.”
My voice sounded sharper than I had intended.
“You need to tell me right now where you got that painting.”
He glanced toward the fireplace.
“From Robert.”
I stared at him in disbelief.
“Abigail, please sit down.”
“What did you just say?”
“Robert sent it to me.”
My first thought was that it couldn’t possibly be true. My second thought frightened me even more.
“You knew my husband?”
Arthur nodded.
Suddenly, it felt as though the entire room were beginning to sway.
“How?”
He slowly sat down.
“You knew my Robert?”
“I was twenty-four at the time. Robert must have been twenty-two or twenty-three. He came to Australia for almost a year.”
I knew that my husband had traveled before we first met. He had also told me about his time in Australia. However, he rarely spoke about it.
Arthur continued.
“We worked together for a few months at a hotel outside Melbourne. A terrible place with even worse pay.”
A small smile crossed his face.
Robert had barely spoken about that trip.
“I’ve never met anyone in my entire life who was as clumsy at carrying suitcases as Robert.”
That certainly sounded like my husband.
Finally, I sat down, too.
Arthur explained that they had quickly become friends back then.
On weekends, they went on trips together, listened to records, played cards, and took on all kinds of poorly paid jobs.
It could easily have been a story straight out of Robert’s life.
Whenever Robert could afford paints and canvases, he painted.
“That cottage there,” Arthur said, pointing toward the fireplace, “stood beside a lake where we once spent the night. That’s where Robert painted the first version.”
“But he didn’t paint that picture until after we got married.”
Arthur hesitated briefly.
“He painted the same scene again.”
Now I was completely confused.
But then he explained the connection.
“He painted the scene a second time.”
Many years after Robert had created the second version in our home, which was later destroyed, he painted a third version from memory. That was the one now hanging above Arthur’s fireplace.
So it wasn’t the original painting I had lost, but a reproduction.
That was why every detail seemed so incredibly familiar.
“But why on earth would he send that painting to you?”
Arthur stood up.
“There’s something else I need to show you.”
Then he left the living room.
It was another version of the same painting.
By now, my heart was pounding so hard that I could almost hear it in my ears.
When Arthur returned, he was carrying a wooden box.
He carefully placed it on the coffee table.
Inside were letters. Dozens of letters.
Every envelope bore the same sender’s name.
Robert.
My heart raced.
Carefully, I took out the top letter.
The return address was our former home.
My hands began trembling again.
“How long were you two writing to each other?”
“On and off, for several decades.”
I looked at Arthur.
“Robert never told me about this.”
That realization hurt me.
My hands were shaking again.
Arthur noticed immediately.
“Abigail, your husband wasn’t having a secret affair.”
“I never said he was.”
“But you were thinking it.”
I almost laughed because he was right.
Arthur explained that after Robert returned to the United States, they had occasionally exchanged letters.
But then life became increasingly hectic.
“But that was exactly what crossed your mind.”
Marriage, children, and work responsibilities left less and less time.
Sometimes years passed between letters.
But when Robert became ill, he found Arthur again on the internet with the help of an old mutual acquaintance.
From then on, they began writing to each other regularly again.
“Why didn’t he ever tell me?”
Arthur looked thoughtfully at his hands.
“Because a large part of his letters was about you.”
That answer left me speechless.
Robert had become seriously ill.
“About me?”
Arthur nodded.
Then he took a particular envelope from the box.
“He sent this along with the painting.”
He handed it to me. The envelope was still sealed.
My name was written on the front.
I recognized Robert’s handwriting instantly. Even so, I couldn’t bring myself to open the letter yet.
He placed the envelope in my hands.
Instead, I asked, “Why did you keep this letter?”
Arthur leaned back in his armchair.
“Because Robert specifically asked me to.”
“And you were supposed to keep it indefinitely?”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
Arthur gave me a sad smile.
“Why have you kept it all these years?”
“Because he hoped that someday you’d travel to Australia and visit the secondhand bookstore he’d told you about. After his final letter arrived, I went there every day, hoping I might happen to run into you.”
I stared at him with my mouth open.
Then Arthur told me what Robert had written in his final letters.
“I went to that bookstore every day.”
Robert had been worried about me. Not because he feared I couldn’t manage my money or take care of myself.
His concern was something entirely different: I never seemed to truly believe that I was allowed to put my own wishes first sometimes.
“He wrote that you give everything of yourself away,” Arthur explained. “Your time, your money, and all your strength.”
I lowered my eyes.
My husband had been worried about me.
“Robert wrote that you were always happiest when you were planning trips you never ended up taking.”
My throat tightened.
Arthur continued.
“Your husband said his greatest regret wasn’t that he never got to enjoy his retirement. What he regretted most was that he had helped make you believe that life could always be postponed until later.”
Tears streamed down my cheeks. Finally, I opened the envelope.
“His greatest regret.”
Robert’s letter was four pages long.
I could never have read it aloud in its entirety without stopping again and again. But one particular passage touched me especially deeply.
“My dearest Abigail,
If you’re reading these words in Australia, you’ve finally done something we both talked about when we were young. And if I can no longer be by your side, then please don’t turn this trip into a memorial for me. Discover the world because you want to discover it yourself.”
One particular passage made me completely break down.
The letter continued.
“Try foods I probably would have hated. Stay in beautiful places longer than you planned. And if you get bored somewhere, simply leave earlier. Spend money on yourself without feeling the need to justify it to anyone. Our children love you, but don’t let your love for them stop you from finally living life on your own terms.”
I clapped a hand over my mouth.
Arthur discreetly turned away so I could have that moment to myself.
I held my hand over my mouth.
Then I read the final paragraph.
“I asked Arthur to keep this letter because Australia has always remained the place where I first felt that I was truly living my own life. Maybe it will be the same for you. And if Arthur is still around, make sure you let him pay for the coffee. He still owes me twelve dollars.”
I couldn’t help laughing through my tears.
“Perhaps you’ll experience that same feeling there.”
Arthur looked at me curiously.
“I was wondering whether he’d mention that. After all these years, I suppose it would be outrageous to charge interest as well.”
Now I laughed even harder.
Then I cried.
But these weren’t the same tears I had shed at Robert’s funeral.
This time, it felt different.
As though grief and relief had suddenly found room in my heart at the same time.
Then the tears came again.
For more than ten years, I had carried a quiet sense of guilt whenever I did something that might never have happened if Robert had still been by my side.\
– Selling the home we had shared.\
– Traveling alone.\
– Simply enjoying life.\
Part of me had repeatedly wondered whether I was leaving my husband behind by daring to move forward.
But now I held his own words in my hands. He himself was urging me to continue on my journey.
All those years, I had secretly carried feelings of guilt.
Arthur and I talked until our coffee had gone completely cold.
He told me stories about Robert that I had never heard before.
How my husband once fell asleep in the middle of a jazz concert, how he got hopelessly lost while stubbornly insisting that he knew exactly where he was, and how he tried to cook a fish over a campfire while camping but ended up dropping it into the dirt instead.
“That’s so typical of Robert,” I said with a giggle.
Arthur told me memories of my husband that were completely unknown to me.
Arthur smiled.
“In his final years, your husband talked about you constantly.”
That surprised me. But suddenly, a thought occurred to me.
“So you already knew about me before we met.”
“Of course.”
“And when we met in the bookstore that day…”
“I didn’t know you were Abigail yet.”
That answer surprised me.
My married name wasn’t particularly unusual, and Arthur hadn’t seen any recent photographs of me.
It wasn’t until after our second afternoon together, when I mentioned Robert and told him where we used to live, that he began to suspect something.
“Then why didn’t you tell me the truth right away?”
“Just imagine traveling alone through Australia and having some strange man suddenly announce, ‘Oh, by the way, I knew your late husband, and I’ve been keeping his letters for twelve years.'”
Arthur had never seen any recent pictures of me.
I had to smile.
“That certainly would have been quite an encounter.”
“I thought an invitation for coffee might be a little less alarming.”
“So you deliberately invited me to your house?”
“Yes.”
“Because of the painting?”
“Among other things.”
I raised a questioning eyebrow.
“That really would have made an unforgettable first impression.”
Arthur suddenly looked almost a little embarrassed.
“And also because I finally wanted to meet my best friend’s wife. The woman he loved with all his heart.”
Those words changed the atmosphere between us.
I looked down at Robert’s letter.
And suddenly, I felt a small, almost ridiculous flutter in my heart, something I hadn’t experienced in many years.
All at once, there was something new in the air.
Then Arthur reached his hand across the table and simply turned it so that his open palm rested between us.
I looked at it for a brief moment.
Then I placed my hand in his.
I stayed in Australia three weeks longer than I had originally planned.
Arthur showed me places that ordinary tourists rarely got to see. We listened to old records together and ate terribly made sandwiches near the beach.
For a moment, I looked at his outstretched hand.
He also took me to the lake where he and Robert had once spent the night as young men.
The little vacation cottage had long since disappeared. But the lake was still there.
We stood side by side on the shore.
“I thought this place would make me very sad,” I said.
“Does it?”
“A little.”
Then I smiled.
“But not only that.”
Together, we stood on the shore of the lake.
I didn’t cancel the rest of my trip around the world.
Instead, Arthur accompanied me on two more legs of the journey.
After that, I continued traveling alone.
Over time, my children slowly began contacting me again.
Karen was the first to apologize.
Then I continued my journey alone.
Melissa eventually admitted that she had reacted so angrily to my departure because it had made her realize just how dependent she had become on my constant help.
David took considerably longer.
At one point, Eric said, “I think I just assumed you’d always be there as long as the house was there.”
I replied, “I’m still your mother. But I’m not a piece of furniture that has to stay in the same place forever.”
We both had to laugh at that.
David needed more time before he contacted me.
Arthur and I continued to stay in touch.
We spoke on the phone every single day.
Six months later, I flew to Australia again.
Not because Robert had somehow mysteriously guided me there. And not because my children’s behavior had pushed me out of my former life.
I returned because it was what I wanted.
Arthur and I continued talking to each other.
Arthur was waiting for me at the airport with a small cardboard sign that read:
“ABIGAIL – I STILL OWE YOU A COFFEE!”
I laughed so hard that tears came to my eyes again!
Even today, I travel often.
Sometimes Arthur travels with me.
Sometimes I set off completely on my own.
I have never stopped exploring the world.
The painting now hangs in the small apartment that Arthur and I share for part of the year.
Directly beneath it are Robert’s letter and another item in a frame: the receipt for the first coffee Arthur bought me after I returned to Australia.
Exactly twelve dollars.
When I sold my house at the age of 69, I thought I was leaving behind the life I had spent so many decades building.
But I was wrong.
The painting now hangs in our little apartment together.
In reality, I was finally on my way toward the part of my life that I had postponed for far too long.
And somewhere on the other side of the world, I rediscovered not only a precious piece of the man I had loved and lost, but also a new person whose friendship I never could have expected.
For the first time in my life, I no longer had to wait for someday to be the right time.
Because my someday had already begun.
