I feel like I'm in grade school again and was the last one chosen for the softball team.

I poured myself another glass of '93 Merlot, channel surfing as the television blared in front of me. The TV remote in my hand felt like my magic wand, an insecure feeling of power, as I sat alone on the living room couch-- waiting for my husband to come home. It was another one of his "group nights" where he and about a dozen other people shared their sexual dysfunction stories. Yes, it was a good thing. Yes, he was getting better. But he goes to this support group three days a week-sometimes four-and I think that maybe it's possible he's addicted to the group that's supposed to help him with his sexual addiction?

Oh, my brain. Relax Andrew, you're just jealous he's not home right now cuddled on the couch next to you.

I continued to surf, lingering on the religious station where the woman with the big purple hair was preaching for pledges. I laughed. She always made me smile, looking more like a circus clown than an apostle of God-raking in millions to save souls and give faith across the world.

Faith. Something everyone wants-everyone needs. And I know Eric is finally getting the faith and belief in himself after months of doubt, and I am happy for him.

But if that's true, then why do I feel so alone?

I heard the rumble of Eric's car moving down the street, slowing as it turned into our driveway. I looked at my watch. He was an hour late and suddenly I felt this overwhelming jealousy-almost as if I knew he was having an affair again.

The front door opened and he walked inside, all smiles, immediately crossing to the couch and giving me a kiss on the lips.

"Watching your favorite talk show again?" He smiled.

I turned off the religious fanatic. "How was your meeting?"

"Great. Hillary is truly an amazing woman. She wants to meet you."

"Why?"

"Because she does."

"Because she knows everything about me."

Eric looked at me in silence.

"You okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be? This is only the third meeting this week. I mean, these people see you more than I do. I'm just fine."

"Drew, I don't get why you're so upset. I thought you'd be happy for me."

"I am. But..."

"But what?"

"I miss us."

"I'm right here."

"Now you are."

The room fell silent as we stared at each other. Tears started to well in my eyes.

Eric held me, embracing me with his strong arms.

"I don't know what to do." I said. "I feel like our home isn't our home anymore. That you don't like me or I've done something wrong because you're never here."

"This isn't our home," Eric whispered. "This is a new home. Yes, it's exactly the same. All of the same pictures on the wall, all of the same knick-knacks everywhere, but it's different. It has to be."

And in that instant I knew being the old daunting house husband-the one always cooking and cleaning-the one getting off of work on a Friday and rushing home so we could share a weekend at home together-was over. He was dead.

I had a new role, perhaps one with more insight and more self-awareness, someone who would have to rely on myself for happiness. We were no longer two people who were one- who had become one relationship-we were now two people SHARING two lives. I had to stop looking at Eric, and start looking at myself.