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The Name Game

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The title papers arrived in a plain white envelope from the tax assessor’s office. It was official: the sunny-yellow brick bungalow I had purchased was mine. I had chosen it because of its quaint character—its white porch overlooking 100-year-old live oak trees and its cozy living room with a fireplace.

I felt it held the promise of a new life—a fresh start—for my daughter, Chloe and me. Five months prior to this, my husband, Will had died after battling a rare sinus cancer. A few weeks later, I gave birth to Chloe.

Since Will’s death, she and I had lived in too many places—the town home my late husband and I bought shortly before she was born, my best friend’s beach house in Los Angeles, a corporate apartment after I returned to Atlanta and now, this house.

I wanted this to be our last move for a while.

I ripped the envelope open and was absent-mindedly reviewing the papers when I noticed how the county office listed my name: Carol Lin Robinson, a single, unmarried woman. Widowed.

The words cascaded off the page: Single. Unmarried. Woman. Widowed.

I immediately visualized a government clerk run amok, unstoppable in his urge to formalize the document and declare a gossipy bit of news, yelling through the halls of government and announcing, “A Single, unmarried, woman, widowed bought the bungalow on Montgomery Ferry Drive!”

It made me wonder why, when Will and I purchased our last home together, the county clerk didn’t list us as Happy. Healthy. Married. A Couple?

Why not be consistent?

My title at work was “CNN Anchor/Correspondent” and it carried with it certain beneficial assumptions that I never took very seriously. But in the shadow of my loss, I realized that, for better or worse, titles determine how society responds to you.

As a CNN anchor, people returned my calls, admired my accomplishments and assumed, incorrectly, that I was lucky. The day Fulton County summed up my life in four lonely, unfortunate words was the day I felt, for the first time in my adult life, diminished.

Professionally, I was still a CNN anchor. Privately, though, I was now just a woman to be pitied. It was a crushing blow.

A few weeks later, my pride was put to the test. The deadline to file for a local homeowners’ tax deduction was looming, which meant I had to dig the title papers out of my drawer and hand-carry them down to the county office. My breath caught in my throat when I realized I had to stand there under the fluorescent lights, surrounded by strangers as the clerk read my new title: Single. Unmarried. Woman. Widowed.

My heart sank.

As I handed the clerk my documents, I saw her eyes move across the pages and pause briefly over the dreaded words that followed my name.

She glanced up and caught my eye. And then I saw it, the unmistakable question everyone asks: What happened?

I wanted to tell her not to pity me because even if I could have foreseen the tragic outcome, I still would’ve married my late husband, Will all over again. He was the love of my life. He made me laugh, made my coffee in the morning and made love to me at night.

I wanted to tell the clerk that I am not “Single” because I am not alone. I have my daughter, my friends and my family—all of whom continue to stand by me.

I choose to believe I am not “Unmarried” because I wear my wedding band in defiance of the cancer that took my husband. Yes, I believe that because it keeps the tears from drowning my hopes that this new title—single, unmarried, woman, widowed—isn’t the end of my story, but merely the first chapter in the rest of my life.

I didn’t say any of this to the clerk. She lingered, and for a moment, I thought she was going to say something.

She didn’t.

A part of me wished she had, so I could tell her the title papers she was holding belonged to a little yellow bungalow that I was determined to make my new home, a happy place where love would grow, songs would be sung and play dates would be had.

Please don’t feel sorry for me, I almost pleaded.

In a flash, she returned to her role as county clerk, someone who processes paper in order to move people through to the next bureaucratic step.

“You can take these to window number five,” she instructed.

As I walked away, I heard her yell, “Next!” And that was that. Did I really expect to find empathy at the Fulton County Tax Assessors office?

On my way back to my little yellow bungalow, stuck in downtown Atlanta traffic, it occurred to me, that for all that has happened to me in the last few months—giving birth, losing a husband, returning to work, buying a home—I had earned a few titles unknown to the Fulton County Tax Assessor: I was a Mother. Survivor. And let’s throw in Optimist just for fun!

As the rush hour traffic started to clear, I realized I was suddenly moving faster toward where I wanted to go.

©ShareWiK Media Group, LLC 2009


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