The best quality of the disaster that was my mother was her sincere interest in hearing about my day. So no matter where we were living, either in a tent, or at Willow Song (a now defunct commune just outside of Eugene, Oregon), or in the A-frame in Eureka, wherever she and I were, she made sure to find the time in those minutes before sleep to hear every detail of my day. It was our ritual, and Tim learned early on that it was sacred to me, so even now, at the end of every day, we tell each other what happened.

I fell in love with Tim one fall day in Berkeley. We’d taken a long hike in Strawberry Canyon. Tired, we sat down between two oak trees, and he rested his head in my lap. As he talked on and on (about what I don’t remember), I watched him fighting off sleep, the way his legs and arms gave in, his eyes open at first, then closed. I liked especially how his voice seemed eager to counter the seemingly inevitable shutdown of the rest of him—his mouth, which is his most appealing feature, kept moving—he wanted, I realized, to tell me everything. As if to say, Here, this is all of me. He seemed worried it wouldn’t be enough. And it wasn’t that I expected him to tell me everything, but I loved that he was willing to try. And yes, in addition to the fact that I found him funny, and that he said I made him laugh more than anyone ever had, it was this willingness, this desire to tell everything—the muck, the petty parts, all of it—that sealed the deal.

Closing the laptop, Tim smiled, disappointed, and said, “They won.”

“Aw, sweetie,” I said.

“Terrible of me, huh? Wanting him to lose.”

“No,” I said. “It makes sense.”

During basketball season, Tim religiously checked one particular women’s NCAA Division III basketball score. The Cayton College Lady Revolvers were coached by the Ohio legend Jack Welch, Tim’s father. Coach Welch had more wins than any coach in women’s collegiate Division III history.

Tim rolled onto his side, facing me, and said, “Wait till you hear what happened today.” Then he recounted his day of teaching, saying it was one of his best ever, and he was so sweet about it that even though I wasn’t in the mood, I pulled off his pajama bottoms and touched him with my hands.

“But, Kate, you haven’t told me about you.”

I didn’t stop.

“Not until you tell me—”

So I recounted the dullest parts of my day but whispered them as if these were my darkest, dirtiest sex thoughts. “Today I buttered toast. I licked the muffin batter off the wooden spoon. I pulled the sled in the snow.” And after he came, I said, “So, that was my day.”

Later, as we lay there, lit only by the glow from the Mickey Mouse night-light, what I hadn’t told him began to bother me. It seemed silly, I thought, to withhold, so I said, “I met this woman today.”