In modern-day America, I am what they call a single mother. In Sweden, where marital status does not dictate societal standing, I would be known as, simply, a mother; in France, where women are not defined by the existence or absence of progeny, I might just be called a woman. We'll leave aside any discussion of what they would call me in the time capsule of a place that is Sicily--an ominous statement that I, as a one-quarter Sicilian, am freely permitted to make.

Semantics aside, being a single mother means there are nights when my son is at his dad's house and I am alone. I am learning to view these nights as an opportunity for self-care and growth instead of filling my time with activities that crowd out any thought or reflection entirely. With this in mind, I try (for once) to take it slow. Relax. Prepare home-cooked meals just for me--then sit down and tell you all about it. That's one of the reasons we're here.