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That morning I’d gone to the gym in my condo for a normal workout. But as I was warming up, with one leg stretched out on a bench, somehow I lost my balance and fell over. For no more than a few seconds I must have blacked out. When I opened my eyes, I was flat on my back on the floor. I tried to get up but couldn’t move my left leg. Hearing me groan, a woman at the other end of the gym called out, “Do you need help?”
I croaked, “Yes,” and managed a thank you.
Soon, two security guards appeared with a wheelchair, helped me into it, and took me to my apartment. All I remember thinking was, “Guess I won’t be going to the mall today.”
Six months earlier, my husband of many years had died. Seeing him through his progressively worsening illness wrenched me daily. I did everything I could for him, but he kept sinking. Numb and disbelieving, I watched that vibrant life-loving man fade in stages. Facing the inevitable, I knew what I had to do and, strangely dispassionate, made all the necessary arrangements. Then, like an automaton, I carried them out. Afterwards, very gradually I came back to life.
The apartment, of course, was uncharacteristically silent. I kept listening for his voice and footsteps. But then I remembered, and each day faced my new reality a little more. Slowly I started to rearrange and then discard things, especially those that had always annoyed me (decorations, some books, many files he’d held onto like gold).
Almost with shock, I realized I could spread out everything—my clothes, papers, files—go to bed late, watch the TV programs I wanted to, and sleep until I was really rested (I work at home). No one would remind me to come to bed or prod me to get up. I could eat whenever I wanted to and whatever I wanted. I evolved a schedule—only coffee when I get up, breakfast at noon, heavier meal (lunch-dinner) at 4 or 5, and much later a light snack in front of the television.
But even now I hobble painfully around. Recovery has been arduous and, at this writing, still not complete. I go regularly to physical therapy, which is helping.
I’m unable to stop replaying that moment, and I remain aghast that I’d lost control, something that had never happened before. Chewing it over, I realized something else—by falling I had punished myself. But for what?
Incredulously, the answer came: for loving to live alone.
I know other women who live alone in my building; some are widows, some lifelong singles. I’d always been proud of my “couplehood” and liked having my husband by my side when we went out, as if I/we were somehow superior to those other women.
Once recently, a neighbor met me at the mailboxes. Her husband had had a special bond with mine, and she had expressed great empathy when she’d heard of his death.
Now she said, “Hey, you look good! How are you doing?”
I smiled and thanked her. And something impelled me to whisper, “I like living alone.”
She burst out laughing and rolled her eyes. “I know what you mean!” Her response almost absolved me.
As I entered the apartment, I thought about what my neighbor had said. Looking around, I noticed as if for the first time the floor-to-ceiling terrace doors, the light, the view, and (not that the place was that big) the sheer space. And more—what I can only describe as a quiet presence. I could leave the doors open without fear of a corrective comment, throw my afghan haphazardly on the sofa without a disapproving look, keep the lights on, turn them off; not always be aware, as if with a second sense, of what room he was in. I could relax.
I looked around and sighed. It was quiet but rarely lonely. I started to contact other women in the building and go out with them. I kept up email correspondence with some favorite people and explored Zoom classes and connections.
Had I finally forgiven myself? If I had, the loving years with my husband weren’t negated at all. I am immensely grateful for his steadfast love, companionship, and leadership. But now, despite the inconvenience of my leg injury, maybe I am finally ready to acknowledge that it is all right to live alone, and to admit that I like—no, I love—it.
Author's Comment
I’m glad to report that I continue to love living alone in my apartment. I keep refining (and discarding) decorations, moving furniture around, cleaning occasionally, and averting my eyes from all the places that need fixing. If I eventually have another partner, I’ll still insist on living alone and treasuring my flexibility and my apartment.
NOT a Father’s Daughter is an intimate portrait of a woman who unknowingly declared at age eight that she would not be a puppet on a string, not a father’s daughter. Unaware of why her resolve to reject patriarchal dogma was so strong, she reflects on how she observed the world around her and fought the injustices she encountered. Interwoven into her memories and experiences, an inspiring manifesto springs forth for women and men, with equal measures of spirit and soul.
Unapologetic and with courage and compassion, important and controversial issues of the day are explored. Through thought-provoking analysis, light is shed on the ways in which the acquired mind upholds traditional gender roles and thereby the patriarchy and the damaging effects of the patriarchy’s assaults on both men and women.
The reader will be drenched in a lively, thoughtful discussion to trigger reflection and provide understanding to the question, “Why do….?
With candor and wisdom, the author’s call to action requires a dismantling of the acquired gender differences and the bonding together of both men and women of all ages, of all ethnicities to smash the toxicity that pummels and plunders our institutions, our cultures, our country, our world. This dismantling requires the soul and spirit and compassion and courage of each of us.
Available in March from online book sellers, local independent bookstores, or from the author.
Learn more about the author at https://www.elizabethrodenzauthor.com
Author, editor, and writing consultant Noelle Sterne has published many pieces in print and online venues. Her handbook for struggling doctoral candidates, 
Sally Buffington is a writer and photographer and author of the memoir A Place Like This: Finding Myself In a Cape Cod House. Sally spent her teenage years in Eastham on Cape Cod and still regards the Cape as her spiritual homeland, even though she’s now lived in California for nearly 55 years. Her photographs have been exhibited at the San Diego County Fair and published in Persimmon Tree. Sally’s writing is about her life, the places she’s lived, family, food, books, and photography itself. Writing lyrically and imaginatively, ever aware of sensory experience and memory, Sally takes the reader into her thoughts wherever she finds herself. See her work and read her blog at
What a lovely way to find joy after loss. Thank you for your story. I connected to the spreading out and expanding after your loss. It reminded me of times when my daughters left for college and the subsequent process of adjusting.
Nice narrative arc from missing your husband’s presence to learning to love being on your own. As a widow, I totally understand. At one point I enjoyed the company of a man I met on the internet but he had to agree to what I called a LAST relationship: living alone, sometimes together. It was nice for a few years and a few times a year but remain happy on my own.