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“I’m already feeling sad,” Dane says, after packing an overnight bag to take to his house. “Yeah, me too,” I answer.

There’s a reason we don’t live together, we’ve always said and believed. Each of us values our alone time and always will. But since Dane’s heart attacks last fall, he’s been living with me.

A month before his heart challenges began, we became engaged. People were excited for us, and their first question was always, “Whose house will you live in?” Or they’d exclaim, “Wow, you two are going to live together!?”

“No!” we'd answer and quickly remind people, “We’re making a commitment to each other, not living together!”

Today, almost four months later, as we were walking up the hill with the pups, we talked about Dane’s upcoming test. They’ll measure his heart’s ejection fraction (EF), the percentage of blood ejected with each contraction, to see if there’s been an improvement. Because Dane's percentage has been low, he still needs to wear the heart monitor (LifeVest), which means he can’t drive. If he can’t drive, he can’t work. If he can’t drive or work, he needs to live with me until he can, so I can be his driver.

So here we are, living together, but today Dane is heading home to spend the evening at his house. He will reunite with his cats, Spike and Blake, build a fire, do a bit of cleaning, and take care of his chickens. I’m heading to La Crosse for errands, and in the morning I have a date with friends.

It wouldn’t have been an unusual scene for us four months ago, but now we’re both feeling melancholic knowing we won’t see each other tonight or in the morning.

“Do you have your phone?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Is it turned on?”

“Yes.”

We load up the car and meander the crooked 11 miles to his place. On the way, Dane says, “When I come home tomorrow…” and we look at each other. I mention that the word home has become confusing, and he agrees. Technically, I’m driving him to his home and going back to mine.

Yesterday, I commented on how flawlessly it’s worked for us to live together, despite how small my place is. Dane doesn’t think it’s too small, but when we’re making dinner it looks more like an intimate dance. And we’re both glad to know it can work, in case someday one of us needs care again.

The other day I was coming out of the Snake Shed with a hunk of hay for the donkeys and yelped when I about stepped into Dane. We both laughed in shock, and I asked what the heck he was doing. “Looking at you,” he answered, and we cracked up again.

This isn’t uncommon. Not long ago, while madly typing, I felt something behind me and turned. Dane, of course. “What are you doing?!” I squealed, my heart racing.

“Just seeing what you’re doing.”

We’ve gotten good at normalizing the winter animal scene here together. Dane yells down the stairs: “Lorca’s under the bed, Merlin is in the cat tower, and Monkey's sleeping in the cat bed on top of the trunk.”

I yell back up the stairs: “Okay, Maurice is curled up on your chair, and Salvador is down here eating. I’ll go round up Rupert and be right up. Do you have Finn’s bone?”

“Yes, he already ate it and is waiting for the one you’ll bring him.”

Thirty minutes later: “I found Rupert, but now I need to let Ruben and Téte out again. Are you sleeping?”

“I was until you yelled up here.”

Rounding up six cats and three dogs, covering the birds, misting and feeding the snails, emptying the litter boxes, and refilling the water bowls and the cats’ food bowls takes at least 30 minutes—with the two of us tag-teaming, about 15. Before we even begin these nightly rituals, we’ve already put the ducks and geese into the Duck Hall, given water and fresh hay to the donkeys and goats, and made sure Louisa had her bedtime meal with three apples.

Today, after my errands in La Crosse, I come home, do chores alone, and call Dane.

“How’s it going?”

“Okay.”

“I miss you.”

“Yeah, I miss you too.

Everything and nothing has changed. My home has become Dane’s home, and his house is still his home. Together we remain committed to loving and caring for each other in the simple life we’ve created.

There is a reason we don’t live together... because we each have our own homes and we enjoy our independence. But that doesn’t lessen the love we share.