About a week ago, I bought myself a bunch of daisies at the grocery store. I placed them in a clear vase on my bathroom counter- the most colorful room in the house with its butter-colored walls and creamy orange countertop. They look lovely there and they’re still holding up, greeting me with their cheerful, open faces every morning when I brush my teeth. There are days when I delight in such small acts, prettying my home with things that I love: my antique blue mason jars lined up on a windowsill, my books stacked in dusty piles on the shelves of the living room. But then there are days when something as small as this, an innocuous bouquet of little white daisies, can make me unbearably sad. They seem false somehow, as if I’m trying to pretend that things aren’t as lonely as they appear to be. Perhaps the flowers we buy for ourselves can never be real.

I have been in such a strange emotional space these last few days. I met with a doctor last week and after our consultation, as he was standing up to leave, he said something that has utterly confounded me.

“You’re doing a great thing, raising those girls on your own,” he said. “The best thing you can do for them is to be happy. But you cannot be truly happy until you have a man in your life.”

At first I was shocked, and then immediately filled with rage. How dare he insinuate that my life is not whole, not complete, without a man in it? How dare he measure my worth and my happiness in this way? I resolved to switch doctors and never see this man again, never give him another chance to belittle who I am. But now that the anger has receded a bit, I have been left with a profound sense of confusion. I’m starting to wonder if he’s right.

I always tell my friend Pamela that humans are pack animals. We’re not made to hunt solo, roaming a lonely mountainside, staking out our territory. We’re the whales who travel in family groups, calling to each other, swimming side by side. Our babies are born helpless and innocent, needing the protection of the pack. And as adults our hearts yearn for familial connection, even when our brains tell us we’re just fine on our own. Everything tastes better and looks better and feels better when we share it with another person. This morning, Pamela and I took advantage of the sunshine and drove to a hidden bluff overlooking the broad, blue waters of the Sound. It was beautiful; wisps of clouds hung suspended in the sky and a chilly breeze blew off the water, whipping strands of hair into our mouths. The ground was soggy and smelled like Spring. We sat and talked, and we sat and didn’t talk, and everything about it was wonderful. And I know that as much as I love that place, as beautiful as it is, it was more beautiful because I was there with my best friend.

I thought about what that doctor had said, and I wondered about the life I have built as a single woman. As much as I love my books, would I love them more if I had a partner to read them to? As pretty as my antique jars are, would they seem more beautiful if they were admired by a second pair of eyes? Would I enjoy my daisies more if they had been presented to me in the hands of a man that I adore? As much as my independent, feminist brain rejects those questions, my heart tells me the answer is an unequivocal yes. It’s an answer that, thankfully, doesn’t require an action. I don’t need to set up a dating profile or tart myself up the next time I run errands, hoping to attract a partner. It’s not something that I need to be whole or happy. But I think it’s important to acknowledge the yearning in my heart, the desire to share my life with someone else. Yes, I can say to it, I hear you. I’m not ignoring you. Be patient. Wait, wait, and the time will come.