Dear E. Jean: I have a question about the etiquette of being "the other woman." The married man with whom I'd been having an affair told me I was "too needy" and that his "shoulders are not for [my] problems." I was so angry that I texted his wife and ratted him out. I also called his sister and mother-in-law and told them I was pregnant with his child.

It was a lie. I was not pregnant. But I had reached the end of my rope when he ignored an important text I'd sent him. I was not only furious about being ignored, but I was hurt because he was emotionally unavailable to me. Now I feel terrible about what I've done. This is not the kind of person I am. How can I clear my conscience and move on from this? —Wronged Woman

Woman—Please: The man is a scoundrel. He was unfaithful to his wife. But you? What you did was so cruel, so half-witted, so dirty, so over the top, causing so much pain to so many people—and if any children suffer the slightest anguish because of your lie (if the man has kids and you cause a divorce)—I don't want you to "clear your conscience." Actually, I want you to go to a therapist.

The shrink will help you understand that a married man is by definition "unavailable." (I have the sickening feeling that you're one of those sparkling Paula Broadwell–esque hotheads for whom "uproar's your only music," as Keats said. Hence, I'm not going to yammer all day about therapy. I just want you to give it a whirl and see if you can grok what's going on and come to a deeper, truer understanding of your life.)

For your own honor, you must now write three letters. The man's wife, his mother-in-law, and his sister should each receive one—handwritten in ink, on serious cream-colored stationery. Apologize for your heinous lies, take full blame for the affair, and say you led him into it. Yes, we know he's a bastard. Yes, we know you're not the Dalai Lama. But make this your one great, selfless act. Your remorse and honesty will restore your dignity, help three people deal with a catastrophe, and show what "kind of person" you are, really.

This letter is from the E. Jean archive.

E. Jean I write the ASK E.

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