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LIVING ALONE ALLOWS [WOMEN] TO FINALLY FOCUS ON THEMSELVES— THEIR PASSIONS, HEALTH, AND PERSONAL GROWTH.
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atricia’s mornings begin at the lip of her sun- bleached porch, where the Georgia air smells of pine resin and the earthy tang of yesterday’s rain. She presses the heel of her palm against a stainless steel espresso maker—a relic from her college years abroad in Florence, its dented spout still whistling Ave Maria— and fills her cup. Beside her, Sprinkle, a King Charles spaniel with a muzzle frosted white, dozes atop a needlepoint cushion. It’s 7:00 a.m., and the suburb still hums with the low, contented silence she’s grown to crave. She sets the espresso cup on a saucer cracked during a long-ago argument with her husband—one about whether to tear out the backyard hydrangeas. She’d won, and now the hydrangeas run wild, framing the porch in riotous blue. Patricia has lived in the same Atlanta suburb for 52 years, but her home bears only faint traces of the life she once shared. The living room shelves, once crammed with her husband’s football trophies, now hold terra-cotta pots of propagated plants and a dog-eared copy of Walden— its margins scribbled with notes in her looping cursive.
“Louis would’ve hated the mess,” she says, gesturing
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