I've always loved my husband, but now that we're both in our 60s, I find myself disliking him far less than before. Perhaps it shouldn't have taken 33 years—a full third of a century—for this to happen, but time has treated him well. It's not only that he has aged more gracefully than most men, but also that the industry where he spent most of his career eventually declined, which, from my point of view, brought a positive change.
With fewer professional demands, he now has more to offer emotionally and personally.
Bruce and I met in our twenties, and our relationship began quite slowly. His approach to dating was, to put it mildly, basic. For our first date, he asked if I wanted to attend an art opening to enjoy some free wine. It took me a year and a half to realize that this kind, intriguing, and unusually tall man was someone I could finally let my guard down around.
At that time, I had published several books, was writing screenplays, and teaching creative writing as an adjunct professor. Bruce held a full-time position as a magazine writer and editor. Financially, we managed well, especially since we didn’t have extravagant needs and had ample free time to enjoy each other's company.
Then came the children, and I became the primary caregiver for our two sick and elderly parents. Bruce was a devoted father, but his job increasingly consumed his time. Screenings, book launches, dinners with fellow writers—the demands of his magazine career, as he described them, were considerable.
Despite being influenced by second-wave feminism, I still bore the brunt of household responsibilities, as had many generations of women before me. I was also working hard to advance my career. A working-mother friend once reflected over drinks, "We did everything." That was the reality behind the illusion of "having it all." We truly did it all, and we resented the burden.
Though not a stay-at-home mom, I handled daily school drop-offs and pick-ups, coordinated activities, took the children to appointments, bought their clothes, ensured they were fed, helped with homework, and managed bedtime routines. (When I shared this essay with my husband, he added a note claiming he helped by dropping off the kids daily and even making breakfast, though the latter seems more a fond memory than reality. He also suggested the earlier comparison to Richard Gere.)
