Saturdays are supposed to be quiet, and yet somehow they never are. Small events pile up one after another, and by the end of the day, it feels much longer than expected.
Yesterday was one of those days.
I woke up early, while the air was still cold and the city had not fully opened its eyes. As always, I got ready and headed to the Japanese school with my younger child. Even on weekends, I find it hard to let go of my routine, so waking up at four or five in the morning has become second nature.
The morning is usually active—both my mind and body move easily. But by the afternoon, the energy fades rather suddenly, like a battery running out. Yesterday was no exception.
Meanwhile, my older daughter went to a friend’s baptism party. The day before, she had spent hours going through my clothes, trying on one outfit after another, declaring “this one” and then “no, maybe this instead,” like a tiny stylist at work. In the end, I never even saw what she chose, as I rushed out the door in the morning.
By the time I returned home in the afternoon, I was already tired, and the evening slipped by quietly.
As usual, I fell asleep around eight, deeply and without interruption.
This morning, when I woke up, a thought crossed my mind.
“What time did she come home last night?”
When I asked my husband, he said, “Around 10:30. I went to pick her up,” as if it were nothing.
For a brief moment, I felt a small sting of guilt.
While I was fast asleep, having completely closed the day, he had been driving through the night, going to the next town and bringing our daughter home.
At home, the mother sleeps quietly.
Outside, the father drives through the dark.
When I look at it this way, it feels a little apologetic, and yet somehow amusing.
Perhaps daily life is not about neatly divided roles, but about these unnoticed moments when someone quietly fills in the gaps.
Tonight, I will probably fall asleep at the same time again.
And somewhere beyond my awareness, someone will carry the rest of the day forward.
.Randers Tanker. 