I’m currently single, and every now and then I wonder if there’s something wrong with me.

I’m almost 56 years old. Never married. A single mother. Teenage mother. Two children by the age of 21. Now I’m single with a cat.

The literal stereotype.

According to society, I’m supposed to feel like shit about this. I’m supposed to be ashamed, lonely, bitter, desperate, and somewhere staring wistfully out a window wondering why a man never chose me.

I am, essentially, a spinster baby mama. I guess I should retreat into the forest, live in a hut, and spend my days brewing evil concoctions while screaming incoherently into the wilderness. Bewailing my fate and screeching like a banshee, all because I’m single.

Oh, the horror!

But I suppose that is the natural fate of a woman who has committed the grievous offense of remaining unmarried. Society still insists on measuring a woman’s worth by whether a man has deemed her worthy of marrying. Never mind her intellect, accomplishments, character, or the life she has built for herself. Without a husband, she is somehow incomplete, an object of pity, a cautionary tale, or worse, a bitter woman whose independence must surely be a disguise for her misery. Apparently, motherhood is not enough, womanhood is not enough, and simply existing on one’s own terms is an unforgivable act of defiance. Perhaps I shall embrace my exile to the forest after all. At least the trees won’t regard my unmarried status as a personal failure. And unlike society, they seem perfectly capable of allowing a woman to exist without demanding an explanation.