If I work until 10 o'clock in the morning and then my call

Host:
The kitchen was still half-asleep — the light from the refrigerator door spilling over crumbs, coffee mugs, and a pile of school papers spread across the table like abandoned intentions. The morning air carried a symphony of ordinary chaos: a ticking clock, the low hum of the dishwasher, the distant cartoon voices from a living room television trying to distract a restless child.

It was 10 a.m. — that invisible line between exhaustion and responsibility.

Jack sat at the kitchen table, dressed but weary, a laptop open in front of him, his fingers idle on the keyboard. Jeeny leaned against the counter, stirring coffee like it was an act of survival. Her hair was tied up, but strands had escaped — wild, human, honest.

The sunlight outside was harsh and bright, but inside, the light felt softer — forgiving.

Jeeny: (reading from her phone)
“If I work until 10 o’clock in the morning and then my call time’s 5:30 that night or whatever, I don’t go home and then get a good eight hours of sleep and then I’m back. You know, I have a kid. I have a husband. I live in a house with other people.”

(She smiles faintly, shaking her head.) Leslie Grossman.

Jack: (chuckling softly)
Ah, the poetry of fatigue.

Jeeny: (sighing)
It’s not even fatigue. It’s the rhythm of someone who knows that sleep is a rumor.

Jack:
You think that’s what she’s saying? That working women live on borrowed hours?

Jeeny: (smiling wearily)
Not just working women — anyone trying to hold two worlds in one body.

Host:
A child’s laughter echoed from the next room, followed by the sound of something small and plastic hitting the floor. Jeeny didn’t move. She just listened, her eyes soft, distant, a half-smile ghosting across her lips.

Jack: (quietly)
You know what I hear in that quote? Not complaint. Just calibration. A woman describing her schedule the way a soldier describes terrain.

Jeeny: (nodding)
Exactly. No drama, just truth. The everyday marathon no one cheers for.

Jack: (thoughtful)
You ever notice how the world romanticizes the hustle but ignores the cost?

Jeeny: (smirking)
Because exhaustion doesn’t photograph well.

Host:
The coffee maker beeped softly, its final breath of steam curling through the room. The light caught in the rising vapor, turning it into something delicate — a ghost of warmth fading too quickly.

Jeeny: (sitting across from him)
We talk about “balance” like it’s a skill. But it’s not. It’s triage. You’re always choosing what to keep alive.

Jack: (leaning forward)
That’s the most honest definition I’ve heard. Every choice leaves something bleeding.

Jeeny: (softly)
And somehow, we keep walking.

Host:
A phone buzzed on the counter — unanswered. The sound of a cartoon theme song grew louder. The house pulsed with the life of people living together, overlapping, colliding, forgiving.

Jack: (quietly)
You know, what I love about that quote is how unapologetic it is. She’s not asking for sympathy. She’s saying, this is the math of my life.

Jeeny: (nodding)
Yes. It’s logistical poetry. The beauty of imperfection organized just enough to function.

Jack:
And the subtext? That “having it all” was always a lie.

Jeeny: (sighing)
No one has it all. Some of us just learn to love the parts that fall apart.

Host:
The light shifted as a cloud passed over the sun, and the room dimmed slightly — a gentle reminder that even the brightest mornings carry shadows.

Jack: (after a pause)
You ever feel guilty resting?

Jeeny: (smiling sadly)
All the time. Rest feels like betrayal. Like you’re stealing time from someone else’s need.

Jack:
And yet the world demands more. Always more.

Jeeny:
More effort, more patience, more selflessness. And if you break, you’re told it’s a scheduling issue.

Jack: (quietly)
No one teaches us how to exist in fragments.

Jeeny: (softly)
But that’s all we are — fragments trying to look whole for people we love.

Host:
A pause stretched between them — the kind of pause that doesn’t need filling. Outside, a car door slammed. A dog barked. The rhythm of reality resumed, steady, merciless, familiar.

Jack: (smiling faintly)
You know, I think she’s really saying something profound: that work doesn’t end where family begins. It just changes its shape.

Jeeny: (nodding)
Exactly. Work becomes emotional labor — invisible, endless, uncredited.

Jack:
But it’s still work. Maybe the hardest kind.

Jeeny:
And the least recognized.

Host:
The camera might have zoomed in on their hands — hers resting near her coffee cup, his still loosely gripping the laptop edge. Between them: quiet understanding, the shared fatigue of being awake for too long in a world that never stops asking.

Jeeny: (softly)
You know what else I hear in her voice? Love. Hidden in the exhaustion. She’s saying, “I’m tired, but I’m not walking away.”

Jack: (smiling gently)
Yeah. The kind of love that doesn’t perform — it just persists.

Host:
A ray of sunlight slipped through the window blinds, falling across the table — a thin, golden bridge between them. Jack reached out and closed the laptop. Jeeny looked up, eyes glassy but calm.

Jack: (quietly)
You think she ever gets a full night’s sleep?

Jeeny: (smiling)
Maybe not. But maybe she gets something better — the small, sacred moments between chaos.

Jack:
The kind you can’t schedule.

Jeeny:
The kind that make the exhaustion worth it.

Host:
The child’s laughter returned, closer now. The door opened slightly, a small face peeking in — innocence interrupting fatigue. Jeeny smiled softly, her shoulders relaxing as she turned her head.

Host (closing):
Because what Leslie Grossman understands —
and what every parent, artist, and soul pulled in too many directions learns —
is that life doesn’t wait for balance.
It asks for presence, not perfection.
You can’t divide yourself evenly —
you just give what you can to where the love is loudest.
And in the sleepless, unmeasured hours —
between the set and the home,
between the work and the world —
we find not failure,
but the quiet, unglamorous proof
that we are still living.