Why am I still here? Why am I still so pissed? Why am I even contemplating leaving one more message on his turned-off cell phone? So that I can record my fury, my angst, onto that little microchip in cell phone cyberspace for posterity? Lord knows he'll never listen to it. He'll hit '7' to erase it the second he hears, “OK, now, where are...”

Twelve years of marriage and it's come to this. He's not home because he'd rather be somewhere else. With someone else. He denies it but my 'wife radar' is in good working order. I'm sick of picturing who she might be. That's not even the point anymore. It's ABW: Anyone But the Wife. If I tell my girlfriends, they'll all just tell me to leave him, to throw him out. My therapist will again urge couples counseling. Tried that at Year Eight. Lasted the requisite six sessions, with promises to “renew," “refresh,” “re-purpose.” You know the drill.

Make more traditions. Make more efforts. Make more love. Thanks, Ladies Home Journal. Thanks Kathie Lee and Dr. Ruth and Shania Twain. I see it's worked out so well for you.

I could just lie here in the dark. I could start trawling the Internet for a lawyer. I could call that guy from the econ summit, that guy from that party three months ago: “If you're ever free on Thursday nights...”

Or I could go downstairs. Get a jump start making the kids' lunches for school in five hours. Or get the hockey gear loaded in the Tahoe now. Save me a few steps in the morning school hustle. Instead, I swallow an Ambien and knock myself out, just as I hear the car in the driveway. Tomorrow with the lunches and hockey skates. Tomorrow with the confrontation, or the ignoring – I’ll figure it out then, when I sit on the train in my suit from Loehman's. Maybe I'll start shopping at Saks again, like I did before the two kids.

Before the two kids. That's when the fights could be out loud, hearts could be worn on sleeves. I could even go sleeveless, such gorgeous cut to my upper arms and shoulders then.

Why am I still here? No, don’t blame it on the kids. Such a cliché.

But here's the reality: If he leaves, so goes the house (we’ll have two separate homes, smaller, no backyard tree house built proudly when we got here, staking our claim to family life in this town). So go the friends (hasn't he always been the charming one of this couple?). And so goes the guy who lets me sleep in Saturday mornings, who teaches the big one chess and the little one piano. The duets on Row, Row, Row Your Boat. Merrily, merrily? Yes, sometimes – most times – life really is but a dream: We are still a sought-after couple for dinner parties, Board of Ed swing votes, and the domestic relay races of carpooling, lawn maintenance, and sock-hop chaperones. He fixes a burnt fuse; I pay the bills. He cracks a joke. I crack eggs into the pan. He slices a steak and chats with animation; I sip his mojitos and listen to him with admiration. He shares a piercing insight from today's op-ed page. I let out a piercing scream when two raccoons scurry out of the garbage can. He pours my favorite wine. I pour over his draft of a speech. He calls my mother. I call his brother. He remembers birthdays. I remember dentist appointments.

He presses a mound of paper towel onto my cut finger, and holds it. Stops, examines the cut, kisses it like he kisses a little one's boo-boo. He holds it again, guiding my hand under the kitchen faucet. More paper towel. Press and hold some more. He searches the bathroom cabinets for a big enough bandage, then races back to me. “Are you alright?” he asks, with real concern.

“Yes,” I find myself saying.

Not “Yes, but about last night...” Not “Yes, but my heart is still a big open wound, bleeding silently all over this house.”

Just “Yes.” For now.