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We’re having fun, but as the night trickles on, I’ll see him check his watch nervously, and then his phone. I have to get going.” I sigh, but since I know it’s coming, I’m not too upset.

It doesn’t matter, really – it’s happened so many times that it could be any event. And finally, with a half frown he’ll say, “I’m sorry, guys.

It’s all I can do not to scream and heave my laptop down the stairs, before I remember: they’re wrong. They don’t know how he looks when he wakes up in the morning. I fall asleep to the glow of of his office light creeping in around our closed bedroom door. It wasn’t that I wanted to be doing what he was, or that I wanted what he had. When his company finally sold, or went public, or came to a close through some other, less desirable means. Look, my husband loves me more than the sun, but the sun is objectively more important than I am. I suppose if I made him choose, I might win, but what, really, would be the point?

Not when he needs to figure out how to be profitable.