My husband’s mistress rang the doorbell, handed me her coat, and said: “Tell Stephen I’m here.” She thought I was the maid. In my own house. She didn’t know I had been his wife for 12 years, nor that I was the owner of the company where her father worked. Twenty minutes later, Richard walked in. By nightfall, he was packing his bags. And three weeks later, I made a call that would cost him everything…

In my own home, wearing jeans and a university sweatshirt on a quiet Saturday afternoon, I apparently looked like household help.

“I have been here twelve years,” I said slowly, “twelve years, Stephen has only been here five.”

She rolled her eyes with a dismissive smile and replied, “Employees always exaggerate their experience, just tell Stephen I am here and I will wait in the living room.”

She walked into my living room, sat comfortably on my sofa, and placed her feet on the coffee table that Stephen and I had bought years ago at a yard sale during the first year of our marriage and refinished together in our garage.

“Could you bring me water?” she called out from the sofa, “with lemon, and lots of ice please.”

I brought her a glass of water with lemon and far too much ice exactly as she requested.

She looked at the glass critically and said, “Is Stephen upset with you or something because he does not like things done this way.”

“How does Stephen like things done?” I asked.

“With attention and efficiency, and respect for guests,” she answered confidently.

“Are you a frequent guest here?” I asked calmly.