After more years alone than even an agoraphobic could bear, Jane decided it was time to try yet again. It wasn’t so much that she had been alone, one could say, as just plain lonely, without true companionship or friendship. She grew up in a family that Charles Dickens himself could have conjured, or perhaps Stephen King himself. Then she married the first man who “loved” her. While this whiled away the years of her life, there was always a yearning for more – an inner child striving to get out – things that dreams are made of, even fairy tales. Fairy tales are such dangerous things.
The best parts of Jane’s heart, the best years of Jane’s life, were spent raising two perfect, yet exhausting, children. There was enormous satisfaction for this woman, this complex yet simple woman, in giving all that she had to these people who she had put on this planet. Pure joy was found in watching them grow, learn, explore, and discover who they were. What a privilege that was. But now … oh, now they have grown up, and Jane can no longer find any way to ignore the inner voices that urge her to find something that is just for her, that maybe she has finally earned that elusive thing she has dreamed of since she first read Cinderella – real love, a sense of real belonging.
The best parts of Jane’s heart, the best years of Jane’s life, were spent raising two perfect, yet exhausting, children. There was enormous satisfaction for this woman, this complex yet simple woman, in giving all that she had to these people who she had put on this planet. Pure joy was found in watching them grow, learn, explore, and discover who they were. What a privilege that was. But now … oh, now they have grown up, and Jane can no longer find any way to ignore the inner voices that urge her to find something that is just for her, that maybe she has finally earned that elusive thing she has dreamed of since she first read Cinderella – real love, a sense of real belonging.
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