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“Are you okay?” I asked, surprised by the genuine empathy I still had for him after 345 days in isolation together. “Yeah,” he answered, his eyes red and puffy. “I’m just tired.” And maybe that empathy is a win on its own. When I’m not blind with rage that Mr. Mom has failed to unload the dishwasher, again, my heart aches for him—that he’s not on a tour bus or on the stage, or in a studio session with other musicians. And it aches for me too. Unlike the ’80s movie’s tidy, anachronistic ending, I’m not hoping to go back to homemaking if/when my husband ever picks up his guitar again. That was never our dynamic to begin with. I’ve always worked—and cooked, and cleaned, and helped take care of our children. I just want more balance and more time (don’t we all?) to support myself—and to support him from the side of the stage, or in a sweaty, sticky-floored club, or at an overhyped festival, or even on those long drives. For now, all we can do is live to fight another, different kind of endless evening, both dreading—and feeling overwhelmingly grateful for—the inevitability of another nighttime routine.

Last Thursday, as we speed-ate our way through a standard dinner of roasted chicken and salad that my son refused to touch, my husband walked over to our record player and queued up “Question” by the Moody Blues. He was wearing his usual: a pair of well-worn Carharrt work pants over Philadelphia Eagles Zubaz with a paper-thin T-shirt tucked into the waistband and a backward hat restraining his light brown hair, which is long overdue for a cut. He sang the chorus, projecting each lyric with an impassioned commitment that made his face turn warm and ruddy: I’m looking for someone to change my life / I’m looking for a miracle in my life. Our daughter, now nine-months-old and long past her colic, giggled while she mashed sweet potatoes into the tray table of her high chair; our son—who has blossomed over these past 12 months, too young to know how the world has been crumbling, somewhat irreparably, outside of our bubble—played air guitar. My eyes got hot and the room turned blurry as I tried desperately to stay present in that moment. “Recognize that this isn’t a time-out in your life, and this isn’t an interruption or an imposition on your life,” retired astronaut and author Chris Hadfield recently told The New York Times, relaying one of the best coping mechanisms he discovered while stuck in space for extended periods of time. “This is your life.” I repeated the mantra to myself as a glimmer of hope and happiness formed a fissure in the monotony of a year’s worth of stress and sadness. Then I went upstairs to run the tub again, and pick out another bedtime story.

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