He got back in the car and drove to the pharmacy, and when he came home he twisted off the cap, shook the tiny pill into his hand, and knocked one back with a drink of water. He put the bottle in the cupboard and said, “There. Happy now?”

Well, not really. Maybe I was the one who needed pills; I couldn’t remember the last time I was happy.

Watching him closely the next few days, I looked for a sign that the pills were working. I’d researched antidepressants online and I knew it would take time for the medication to build up in his system, but I still hoped to see some improvement, no matter how miniscule. I finally brought it up one morning a few weeks later after the kids got on the bus and Chris walked into the kitchen to take the pill. After he filled a glass of water from the sink and swallowed it down I asked, “Do you think they’re helping?”

He looked out the window and shook his head. “No.” He didn’t seem mad, just resigned.

Bracing myself for the fight I was sure to start, I said, “Sometimes you have to try a few different ones before you find one that works.”

“Maybe.” Chris didn’t yell. He didn’t even raise his voice. But the look on his face scared me to death. His lifeless eyes told me he didn’t care anymore. About anything. If he didn’t catch a break soon, I wasn’t sure what would happen. “If you call them, I bet they can prescribe something else.” I fought back tears and walked over to him and took his hands in mine. “It will be okay,” I said. I put my arms around him and tried not to take it personally when his remained at his side.

Chris called the doctor and was given a prescription for another drug. I picked it up at the pharmacy, swapped out his pills, and waited again.

This time, I didn’t have to ask him if they were working; I could see it with my own eyes. As each day passed and Chris continued swallowing the pills, an amazing thing happened. He slowly emerged from the fog of depression. His step got lighter, his movements quicker, and you could hear it in his voice when he spoke: the sound of relief, of hope. He slept more and he slept deeply, as if making up for all the rest he’d missed out on. I made all his favorite foods and one day, when I brought a plate into the office, he smiled and said, “Thanks.”

The pills weren’t a magic bullet, and the stress of being unemployed still weighed heavily on his shoulders, but he emerged from the office more often, and he spent time with the kids, helping Jordan with a school project and throwing the football around with Josh. The circles under his eyes lightened and the pall that had been cast over our home lifted a bit. I began to breathe easier.

Six weeks after starting the new antidepressant, he landed an interview with a local software development firm. He’d applied for countless jobs within the company and had never received anything other than a form rejection letter. He prepared for the interview as if his life depended on it. He nailed it and when he made it through to the next round, I noticed an increase in his confidence. I could tell he didn’t want to get his hopes up, but I also knew that the competitive side of Chris had been reawakened and if there was one thing he hated, it was to come in second.

He returned home from the third round of interviews, buoyant instead of despondent. The golden boy, whose appearance prompted most women to take a second glance, practically glowed with enthusiasm.

He followed me up the stairs that night instead of retreating to the couch to watch TV or spend time on his laptop. When he joined me in bed he kissed me for the first time in I don’t know how long, and I wished I had suggested the antidepressants earlier. But after he took my clothes off, and his own, and I touched him the way I’d been touching him for years, nothing happened. I kept trying until he finally shook off my hand and rolled away. The silence that filled the room roared in my ears, and I wisely kept my mouth shut because what could I possibly say that would help?

This had only happened once before, when Chris attended the bachelor party for his college roommate. Not only could he not get it up when he came home, he passed out trying and didn’t remember it the next morning. He laughed about it the next day when I told him, and said something about never drinking scotch again.

We attempted to have sex again a few nights later with the same results. Stopping the antidepressants wasn’t an option—not when they were working so well—and the class of antidepressants with the fewest sexual side effects included the pills that hadn’t worked for Chris.

I felt like we were all out of options. As if losing his job wasn’t emasculating enough, Chris had to decide what mattered more: his mental health or his ability to make love to his wife. I assured him, repeatedly, that it didn’t bother me. That it was more important that he take the pills. We’d come a long way since the dark days of late winter, and I had no intention of rocking the boat and undoing all the progress we’d made.

“Well, it bothers me,” Chris said.

“Take the pills as long as you need to,” I said. “Don’t worry about anything else right now.” He started to speak, but I cut him off before he could protest further. “Please, Chris.”

“Okay,” he said. He looked so dejected when he said it, and I wondered why fate felt the need to throw so many obstacles at my husband.

He walked into the laundry room one afternoon a week later. I was folding clothes and when I looked up Chris said, “I got the job.”

My emotions soared. I knew our luck would finally change. Now everything would start to turn around. I gave him my biggest smile. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” His voice held no trace of the elation I was expecting.

I started to rush forward, to hug him, but his somber expression and serious tone confused me. He should have been smiling, too. He should have sounded happy. A prickle of unease worked its way down my spine and my feet remained rooted in place. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’ll have to travel. I didn’t want to say anything about it until I knew they were going to hire me.”

“How often?” I asked. I had a feeling I wouldn’t like the answer to this question.

“Four days a week.”

My relief disappeared instantly, replaced by trepidation. “Do they have any other positions available? Anything that doesn’t require so much travel?”

“No,” he said. “I found out during the final interview, when they let down their guard a bit, that the only reason they’re hiring someone at all is because the guy who used to have the job didn’t work out. They were careful about what they said, but it sounded like he couldn’t cut it.” Chris leaned against the dryer and shook his head. “I don’t like the travel, either, Claire, but there are ten men, maybe more, who’d be happy to have this job. The base pay and commission structure are comparable to my old job. The benefits are excellent. I’ll be eligible for a promotion in six months and if I get it, I’ll be able to come in from the field.”

I wanted to protest, tell him to turn it down. Time apart was the one thing I didn’t think our marriage could weather. We needed to work together, to repair and rebuild what we’d torn down. I couldn’t imagine how we could possibly accomplish that goal if we weren’t under the same roof. But when I saw the anxious look on his face, saw the desperation, I couldn’t say the words. Chris needed that job, and to be employed more than he’d ever needed anything in his life, so I threw my drowning husband a lifeline and said, “Don’t worry about the travel. We’ll manage.”

The relief on his face mingled with the sadness. The bittersweet triumph hardly seemed adequate considering what he’d been through.

He looked at me, nodded, and whispered, “Okay.”

In the distance, a bell sounded. The possible death knell of our marriage. Judging from his expression, I’m almost certain Chris heard it, too.