Why I Love Singlehood: Read Online Free PDF

times he told me how much I looked like my mother.
    My father died sixteen months after my mother, also of cancer, although I still believe it was brought on by a broken heart and not genetic predisposition, as the doctors told us. He had emotionally left us long before, so grieving for him was more an act of longing for the days when we were all young and carefree and close than an exercise in shock and loss. I’d thought such grief would be easier to manage. Turns out I was wrong.
    After barely graduating high school, I went to work full-time at a bookstore for almost four years. It was a perfect fit for me—I couldn’t remember a time when I wasn’t escaping to some story. Time outside the kitchen was spent reading and spinning stories. Meanwhile, Olivia worked as a receptionist in a doctor’s office, where she met the man she’d eventually marry.
    When I was twenty-two, the age at which the few friends I had left had graduated college, Olivia finally snapped.
    March twenty-sixth, to be exact.
    We had just finished the last slice of torte when she put her fork down and asked, “Eva, when are you going to get out from under your rock?”
    I looked at her, bewildered. “What?”
    “This has got to stop.”
    “Mom’s torte?”
    “You need to get a life! You’re twenty-two, and where are you?”
    “What are you talking about?” I asked, feeling panic and anger rise. “This is our home !”
    “This place hasn’t been anyone’s home since the day Mom got diagnosed.”
    I sat back hard, as if she’d struck me, while she charged full steam ahead. “You should be writing books, not selling them! You should be out living your life, not what’s left of theirs.” She glanced up at me, and I was surprised to see tears lining her eyes. “And don’t even give me that look—Mom and Dad would’ve told you the same thing.”
    “Oh yeah?” I shot back, my vision blurred with tears I refused to blink away. “And you think they’d be so proud of you answering phones? That takes a lot of skill!”
    She made a strange, strangled sound, and several moments passed before she spoke again.
    “I can’t believe how selfish you are,” she said. I’d never heard her voice so cold. “Didn’t it ever occur to you that I might want to get married and have a family of my own? You’re my sister, not my daughter! You think I wanna spend the rest of my life taking care of you? It’s time to grow up! For both of us!”
    She pushed away from the table and left me crying in silence that pounded at my ears. I didn’t see her again until later that night when she slipped into my room and onto the corner of my bed. I pretended to be asleep, but she saw right through it. She sat with me and rubbed my back for nearly an hour. It was probably the worst fight we’d ever had.

     
    The food processor interrupted my memories as it pulverized organic graham crackers while the butter melted in a saucepan on the stovetop. I combined the two and pressed the mixture into Mom’s torte pan—I refused to use any other—before putting it in the oven and moving on to the custard.
    The best part of lemon torte is making the custard. Today I had chosen two perfect lemons—bright yellow and blushing green in just the right spots—and I could almost hear my father behind me trying to coerce me into doubling the sugar, just like he used to do with my mother. Like me, he had no taste for sour things and would squinch his face after every jaw-pinching bite of the torte before licking his fork clean and spearing more. I think I could make lemon custard with my eyes closed, letting the pull of the spoon tell me when it’s heated enough to set just right. After removing the custard from the stove to cool in the fridge, Mom would give Olivia the spoon. We had a system: Olivia got the custard leftovers (her favorite part), and I got the crust crumbs (my favorite part).
    I slid the bowl into the fridge, and my memories continued.

     
    I had been