The first night my husband and I lived together, we had been married for two years. His work was in a small town in Massachusetts, where he and his ex had raised their now college-age children. My work and life were in New York City.  Early in our relationship, after we had been dating a few months, he said, âEventually the distance is going to be a problem, isnât it?â  I didnât think so. The distance suited me. I had always believed I had it better than women who were dependent on men. Or maybe I was jealous. A zaftig and insecure teenager, I never thought I would marry or even that someone could love me enough to let me lean on him.  Instead, from my early 20s on, I leaned in, Sheryl Sandberg style, focusing on my career and surrounding myself with other serious young women, all of us trying to get ahead. Marriage wasnât high on my priority list.  I had seen what could happen when a woman traded in her independence for a spouseâs support: There was the fashion-designer acquaintance whose wealthy husband left her after she developed a brain tumor, and a lawyer friend whose venture-capitalist mate encouraged her to quit work to write, then walked out on her after the birth of their second child.  I took their experiences as cautionary tales and instead partnered with men who were dependent on me: a bespectacled journalist who asked me to proofread his articles, a divorced father who regularly needed me to spot him cash.  By the time I met Randy at age 45 on the porch of a Victorian inn where we were both vacationing with friends, I was used to men coming and going, and even more used to being on my own. Several years earlier, I had bought an apartment, a one-bedroom with a tiny kitchen, perfect for a single person who didnât cook.  I got busy creating a cozy, colorful home, my mostly empty refrigerator dotted with crayon drawings by my two young nephews who lived blocks away. To the boys, I was the adventurous aunt: Aunt Yes, they called me, because why should I say no? I wasnât weighted down with the responsibilities and obligations that marriage and motherhood seemed to bring. I was a free woman beholden to no one.  Randy said he appreciated my independence. A guy who liked to lean in himself, he ran a small medical-device company â a chief executive, yes, but one who wore shorts to the office, bought his shirts at Sears, liked little cars with big engines and had no need for a loan from me.  He was doing fine on his own, as was I. Which is why when he brought up the geographical distance between us, I was uncharacteristically blasÃ©.  âWhatâs three hours?â I replied. âA car ride!â  Each week we alternated, three nights at his place, four at mine, every reunion a first date, with lingering kisses and predawn drop-offs at Amtrak. We took turns paying for things, too, not in a calculated way, at least not on Randyâs part. I always kept score: Was I letting him pay for too much? Was it my turn now?  Yet as the months passed and Randy didnât disappear, it was hard not to lean on him simply because he could do so many things I couldnât: fix a toilet, whip up a dinner without a recipe, suss a car problem by listening.  Randy didnât need me in any material way. What he needed, it seemed, was to take care of me. Within months of our meeting, he had added a pot rack to my minuscule kitchen. I didnât own a microwave so he bought one, popped it in my never-used oven (the only available space) and wired it up.  âYou hardly ever cook, so this will be more convenient,â he said.  Not that he expected me to make dinner for him. Instead, he did the cooking. He also carried my suitcase when I met him at the train, never failing to open the car door for me before we sped off in his convertible. Yet he clearly delighted in my strength, cheering my successes at work and taking pride in the life I had created for myself.  Paula Derrow is a writer and editor who divides her time between New York and Connecticut.
I had found a man who liked taking care of me yet I couldnât accept his support, opting to lie awake nights crunching numbers in my head.