I don’t want to be a wife, not now. Not soon. I don’t want to be a woman that fits into a little box; I don’t want the stereotypes—the boring sex life, the one who’s supposed to clean the house, the face in the window, longing, waiting for her husband to come home from work—I know none of that is reality, but it’s what I’ve always feared, falling into routines that keep me from being me.
I don’t want to give up the things I love, to make sacrifices for the good of another, to lean on a person so fully that my decisions become their decisions. I don’t want to feel like I need someone. Not yet.
Maybe it will be beautiful, one day, when I fall for someone so deeply that I want to intertwine them in my passions, in my pillows, in the perfect little world I’ve created around myself.
Maybe I’ll be unafraid. I’ll want to be connected. I’ll want to let go of some of the unimportant things to make room for new.
Maybe I won’t have to give up anything. Maybe I’ll still be who I am, but I’ll be somebody’s. I’ll be claimed, cared for. And maybe I’ll like that.
Maybe it won’t be so bad, having someone to come home to, a world to share, and thousands of secrets and memories and smiles to keep close to my heart.
Maybe I won’t have to be the face in the window, waiting patiently. Maybe, instead, we’ll come home at the same time, sharing stories about our days and together at the stove.
Maybe it won’t be too bad, the whole falling in love thing.
But I’m not ready yet. I’m not ready to give up being selfish, to give up being afraid, to stop building these little roadblocks around my heart.
I don’t want to be a wife right now. I just want to be a woman. And I think that’s good enough.