fear of being alone

“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. 

He watched as his father and I finalized our divorce in December. He'd started splitting his time between two houses in July, when I moved in with my mother.

At some point in my teen years, I developed an unfathomable fear of being alone. Despite the warmth provided by my loving family and countless friends, I wanted to have some boy in my life. If I didn’t have a boyfriend, I had some back-burner type boy.