I was pleased to contribute an article to GOOD Everyday’s blog on April 25. See an excerpt below.
“Each widow discovered new freedoms and had very distinct ways of dealing with the world”
I was a chubby, freckled-faced little girl with a vivid imagination, who dreamt of growing up to become the perfect wife.
In my dreams, I’d go to college to get a Mrs. Degree, burn my bra as a protestor, wear designer dresses, live in a big house, and show off my diamond ring from my hot-shot husband.
However, not all dreams become realities.
Although I burned plenty of bras in college and marched with powerful women during the 60s feminist movement, a perfect wife I was not.
My husband came in the form of what I believed to be prince charming wrapped in a dental lab coat. He professed his love for me, and I swooned, a young woman with naiveté. Despite knowing deep down that he wasn’t the best for me, I put up my shield of denial and carried on.
After tumultuous years of fighting and four children later, my prince charming dropped dead in the middle of the freeway. In an instant, I joined the ranks of my ancestors.
I was now a third-generation young widow, as my mother and grandmother were also widowed at a young age.