JOANNE

Three weeks ago, I walked into that office building downtown to surprise my husband, Louis.

We had been married for five years—five long, carefully constructed years of playing the devoted, supportive wife. But when I pushed open the doors to his private suite, I didn’t find him buried in financial reports.

I found him buried deep inside his new twenty-two-year-old secretary, her skirt pushed up around her waist on top of his desk. The very one he said was incompetent.

Most women in my position would have wailed. They would have thrown a scene, smashed vases, thrashed around, and fallen straight into a dark, bitter depression.

But I didn't...