The thought streamed in the back of Imani’s brain, an unwanted radio signal periodically interrupting her connection to the screen in front of her and the woman at its center. Her patient was a thirty-eight-year-old marketing consultant and mother who, up until the pandemic, had deftly managed a demanding career and caring for two elementary schoolers. She’d done so with the assistance of a nanny, a weekly cleaning service, and in-person school—none of which were currently in her life.

“I can barely think between all the food preparation. I mean, they eat constantly. Constantly. Mommy, can I have a snack? Mommy, it’s our lunch hour. Mom.” The woman wiped her dark bangs off her forehead. Her hair had a stringy quality, like it hadn’t been brushed or washed in a couple days. “And then there are the interruptions with help for school and the laundry and the packages. Every damn day something else needs to be opened and unpacked and recycled. And I’m on deadline for a major project—not that anyone cares in my house.”

The complaints became a background beat to the refrain that Imani couldn’t ignore. Philip had driven Tonya home. Her husband would be spending hours at work with this woman and then ferrying her back to the house where they all lived. The two of them would be alone in the car for thirty minutes at least, sharing their day and dreams, their frustrations and failures. They’d have more quality time together than she had with her own spouse—than she’d had with him for years thanks to the constant demands of his restaurant.

“Do you know what he said to me when I asked him to please come down and fix the internet connection so that the kids could log on?” Her patient continued. “‘Derivative traders don’t multitask.’ He suggested that simply asking him was putting millions of investor money at risk.”

“You both are under a ton of pressure. Are there any things you can scrape off your plate?” Imani asked, aware that her thoughts of Philip and his work were bleeding into her language. “The house, for example, doesn’t need to be as neat as it once was.”

“I can barely walk in it as it is,” the woman said. “Seriously, I look like a hoarder. You can’t see it because I’m having this conversation with you from my bed and only showing you the headboard. If I rotated the camera, you’d think I needed medication.”

“Being stressed is understandable,” Imani said, offering a platitude because she was plainly distracted. “You’re doing more than any one person should have to do.”

“I’m going to have to leave my job.” Her patient looked away from the camera, possibly at the unseen mess. “It’s impossible otherwise.”