Two Weeks

Abigail Henderson has done a lot for her adopted community. Ten years ago, she single handedly created a program that gave women a telephone number they could call if they were stranded and needed a safe ride home. Three years after that, she organized a fundraising drive to help the residents on the west end of the city who lost their homes and belongings in a tornado. Just last year, she spearheaded an anti-bullying campaign and presented it to all of the local schools. Name a march, any march, and she’ll be there. Casually mention that you’d like to have a charity walk, run, or bike ride for a cause near and dear to your heart and she’ll sign up. Tell her about a sad story you heard on the news and she’ll be on the first plane out to go over and see what she can do.

She’s a giver and a doer, that Abigail. Some would even say her heart’s bigger than a Hollywood starlet’s pair of breast implants, that her soul is softer than a four hundred thread count set of sheets that has just been treated to the finest fabric softener money can buy, and that her love for man knows no boundaries.

Her love for her mother, however, well that’s a different story. Abigail hasn’t spoken to her mother since she refused to give her twenty-five thousand dollars for her second wedding.

“It’s not that I don’t want to, sweetie. It’s just that cancer treatments are expensive,” her mother told her that day two years ago while on the phone from Abigail’s hometown four hundred miles away.

“Always thinking about yourself, aren’t you mother? How typical,” Abigail said, completely forgetting that her mother had already paid for her daughter’s university education, the first wedding, the subsequent divorce, the healing week long retreat at a spa that followed, and for the down payment on her house.

Abigail’s mother tried to reach out to her a number of times after that, but she refused to take her calls and deleted her emails before she even read them. That’s why Abigail missed the news that her mother’s treatments had stopped working, and why she later let a call from Wendy Dupris of West Daneville Community Hospital go to voicemail.

Abigail was to call her back right away, but she couldn’t do it that day because she was too busy with one of her marches. She’d be too busy tomorrow as well, serving lunches at the local soup kitchen. The day after that wouldn’t work either, she had hats to knit for premature babies. This Wendy person was just going to have to wait.

It would be a solid two weeks before Abigail got around to calling Wendy back. Two long weeks before she could be bothered to learn that her mother had passed away. The babies got their hats, though, and for that, Abigail was honoured six months later with a dinner for being such a fabulous person.


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