“I don’t want to die alone,” I mutter to myself as I sweep the kitchen floor in my new home. These words represent my greatest fear.
It’s a Saturday morning, and I am alone. A loud silence rings in my home. It's a silence formed by my son, who is not here. There isn’t an iPad blaring with cartoons on Netflix or Hulu. The only noise is a broom raking across a linoleum floor. The sink is filled with pots and pans, remnants of a recent dinner. Alongside the casserole dishes and saucepans is a solitary plate.
In my new home, I am alone half the time.
The other half of my time is spent with my child. He isn’t responsible for my happiness. I want to watch him grow up, find independence, and learn to fly. I never want my fears to hold him back.
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