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" DEAR E. JEAN: Last month I was in a private airport lounge waiting for my flight and ran into a guy I know. I had met him and his gorgeous wife (and cute baby boy) last spring at my cousin&amp;#039;s wedding in Wyoming. He&amp;#039;s the president of an oil company. Anyway, we discovered we were both heading to London for work. I&amp;#039;m an investment banker. My husband runs a hedge fund, and we&amp;#039;ve been married for four blissful years. Well, after two intense days of meetings in London, I was out on the town with my colleagues celebrating and was on my fourth Pimm&amp;#039;s Cup when I called the guy. I don&amp;#039;t even recall how we got to my hotel (colleagues say they remember me getting into his SUV). We had sex three times that night. Clearly I screwed up! I flew home feeling terrible and decided to forget it. Last week I learned I was pregnant. I came clean with my husband\u2014I sent him an e-mail and apologized to him for what had happened. He was livid! He informed me that he was filing for divorce. Then he told my parents everything. I heard from my cousin that the guy who impregnated me is living a very normal life with his wife and kid. That information makes me totally mad. I want to tell his wife about what happened. I don&amp;#039;t need any financial support; I have a great career and can provide an excellent home and education for the child. But I feel we both should pay for the mistake we committed. At least I was high that night. He has NO excuse. \u2014Stay Out of Airport Lounges! UV! MY LUV!: Do not tell his wife. With the tenderest respect, pardon me, Lounge, my lass, but\u2014excuse me\u2014you licensed Oil Man to drill, you called him, you banged him three times, you flubbed up by e-mailing (e-mailing!) your husband before thinking things through\u2014so, to repeat: You may not inform his wife. Anyway, are you absolutely 100 percent certain the child is not your husband&amp;#039;s? Get the tests. Only when you&amp;#039;re sure do you call Oil Man\u2014not to &amp;quot;make him pay&amp;quot; (this is not a punishment!), but to discuss plans for the future education and happiness of the child. You&amp;#039;re going to need him, maybe not right this minute, but\u2014trust me. Make friends (or at least not enemies) with him. I&amp;#039;m hesitant to close with this Queen-hell possibility, but really, now, darling, think about it: Who&amp;#039;s to say this won&amp;#039;t turn out to be the greatest thing that&amp;#039;s ever happened to you? Because it does seem you wanted to blow up your &amp;quot;blissful&amp;quot; life. Perhaps the Pimm&amp;#039;s Cup Spree and the electronic confession to your husband were ways to tear up your existence and start anew. Perhaps you wanted to get pregnant. Perhaps you wanted another life. Like the Big Bang, it takes only one trillionth of one trillionth of a second to change everything. But don&amp;#039;t explode Oil Man&amp;#039;s family in the bargain. Because you can never, never, never, never predict how the pieces will fit in your Jigsaw Puzzle of Fate. P.S. Wait. Before I sign off, may I just say that what you&amp;#039;ve got there is one of the most unchivalrous bunch of &amp;quot;colleagues&amp;quot; Auntie Eeee has ever beheld? Colleagues? Haw! Weaklings! Turncoats! They should have stepped in when they saw you were drunker than Ulysses S. Grant and hotter than a cat in heat. Instead they watched you stagger toward that SUV of Fate. Watch out. At best, they&amp;#039;re spineless jerks. At worst, one (or two) are after your job. Related:  Ask E. Jean: Am I Too Smart for My Own Good?  Related:  Ask E. Jean: How to Lose All Hope  Related:  Ask E. Jean: My Best Friend, Her Boyfriend, and a Bottle of Tequila  "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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