By the time they left, I was fighting back tears. But as Margaret swept out with her entourage, chin high and eyes glinting with triumph, something inside me hardened.

I wasn’t going to let her win.

The next morning, Margaret showed up at our house. She never missed a chance to report her “concerns” to Michael. Sure enough, over breakfast, she leaned across the table and said, “You’ll never guess who I saw last night. Working at that little bistro downtown.”

Michael frowned, confused. “Who?”

“Your wife,” she announced with relish. “In an apron, carrying plates like some college dropout. I nearly died of embarrassment. Imagine what people must think.”

I felt Michael’s eyes snap to me. My chest tightened.

“Is this true?” he asked.

I took a deep breath. This was it. The secret was out sooner than I planned. “Yes,” I said. “It’s true.”

“Why? You don’t need to work. And especially not there.” His tone was sharp, wounded more by the secrecy than the act itself.