Welcome to My Family of One

My household might only contain one person — but it’s still a family

I longed to have a family for as long as I can remember. It seems to be one of the most popular romantic fetishes of American women. The dream is sold to us in magazines, movies, books. We imagine gauzy curtains in our future living room, a kitchen filled with tiny feet and the sounds of cooking food and happy conversation, toddlers smiling at us with jelly-stained lips, a partner who rushes to embrace us after a day apart.

As a child, I didn’t think there was any other option. Sure, I wanted to be a writer more than anything else, but it was just a given that I’d also realize my domestic dreams.

I was so excited when I fell in love in my thirties and my partner and I moved in together. It literally felt like everything was finally going to be okay.

I worked so hard to make that house a home for us. I made a garden. I created a sense of warmth and coziness inside. I kept a regular dinner schedule of healthy and comforting meals. I cleaned every week and created thoughtfully organized spaces in every nook and cranny.

What I really wanted, though, was a family. I wanted my office to be a nursery. I wanted to hear little feet running through the kitchen. I wanted lazy Sunday mornings at the dining room table, passing syrup back and forth. I wanted cuddle piles in our bed: him, me, the dog, the kids.

My partner loved the clean house. He loved the organized spaces. He loved the dinners and perfectly folded clean laundry that magically appeared in dresser drawers and on closet shelves.

But he wasn’t interested in the rest.

Unsurprisingly, he left, when I was on the cusp of 40, at a time in my life that I once assumed was “the end of the line.” My dog died a few months later, and I lost the house, as well, unable to afford the rent on my own.

I thought it was too late to realize my dream of having a family, or a “home of my heart.”

I realized, though, that I had managed to make a home and a family out of so little when I was with my ex. For all the years we lived together, as he was pulling further and further away, I still woke up every day and created that beautiful little nest. I still kept our family together.

To this day, I look back at that difficult time in my life and still can draw comfort from the memories of the home — the family — I built.

A few years later, at 41, I bought my own house. All by myself. And though I went through about a year of emotional adjustments that weren’t always pleasant, I began building a home again.

I created a garden. I made the interior warm and cozy. I keep a dinner schedule with delicious and comforting meals. I thoughtfully organize little nooks and crannies.

In the process, I’ve discovered that I am a family. Yes, just me.

I have those lazy Sunday morning breakfasts — usually french toast — sitting at the counter-top bar, watching Netflix or listening to an audio book. I love to have movie night with myself, knitting on the couch, wrapped up in my fluffy blanket. I feel safe and happy in my bed, falling asleep with one arm folded across my chest — my own little cuddle pile.

Starting to think of myself as a family of one developed organically from my efforts at creating this home for myself. It’s not much different than what I did for my ex and my dog…and as was the case back then, I found that I had built a space in which I felt companionship, love, and connection.

It just so happened that I was the only one here this time.

But why shouldn’t I be a family of one? Being single can be hard. A simple shift in perspective can help so much on the challenging days.

And who’s to say that that shouldn’t be the goal? Why do we fetishize romantic relationships with an intimate partner when we could instead appreciate all aspects of romantic connection, including the one we can create with ourselves?

Sure, I still think about having a family someday — even just a partnership, if that’s in the cards. I would love to experience again the simple pleasure of knowing there is someone out there who is expecting me to come home every night.

But I also love my solo movie night dates. I love my Sunday french toast breakfasts. I love the family home I have created.

And more than anything, I love the woman for whom I built this home.

She is my family of one.

© Yael Wolfe 2020