We meet in the middle of the night like clandestine lovers, creeping down a dark stairwell, careful to avoid waking the littlest household members, who would surely intervene. This is the truth: If asked to visualize my husband as a lover, his face comes to me in shadows. This is the even bigger truth: Without these stolen hours, I don’t know what kind of marriage we’d have, or if we’d have one at all.