I’m only able to write it. I barely had enough time to share that my doctor discovered a minor heart condition, or that I applied for a new apartment, and expanded my business. It wasn’t about time.I was afraid to express how exhausted I am, and how life has worn me down though I stand upright and show no signs of distress.

He thanked me for an act of vulnerability recently, so I was encouraged enough to send a couple of electronic notes, sharing my silent pain, and my sincere needs. I’ll stay home and cook. I’m that tired. Nothing feminist about it, or against it. It is just possible that I have come to need the security of a domestic life.

All the while it took hours after sending the confessions to allow myself to trust him. I don’t quite trust anyone. It is nothing against the innocent and those who love and admire me. I guess I trust him enough to ask him to help me survive. I didn’t ask to survive, I asked because I am growing tired, and I need to lean on him.

And so it goes, yet, my ambition will sit neatly in a remote form that will never disrupt the flow and peace of the house. I’ve never written or spoken like this in my life and would have never imagined it 10 years ago.

Middle age, or the dawning of it, does things to you. It can go either way: radical self reliance or surrender to a companion.