I try to be there for her. I really do, but sometimes it’s as if I’m invisible. As if I don’t matter at all. Yesterday, for example, was typical. She went for her run in the morning, five miles if I understand it, about 45 minutes. Back home she showered, checked her phone, scowled, brewed a cup of tea, munched a biscotti, watered the plants, checked her phone again, scowled again, and opened her laptop.

Some days after her shower she dresses, then she might go out, but not yesterday. She worked on her laptop, made another cup of tea, returned to her laptop. The morning went by. The afternoon. Okay, she did ask me if I’d gotten enough to eat. She gave me a wan smile. It’s just you and me, that smile seemed to say. But then it wasn’t. She was back at her desk, at her laptop, and then as evening crept in, she closed the lid, poured a glass of wine, typed a message on her phone, finished the wine, and lay down on the daybed.