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what she thought. Her husband, Alphonse, a successful chiropractor with an office right in town, often walked home for a nooner with his adorable Italian wife. And she is adorable, round and pretty, with curly dark hair and big, brown eyes.
    I sniffed and knocked back what was left of my drink. “He left me for Dominique. She’s thirty. And French. And a size four. My life is over. I’m going to die with eight cats and no husband.” And then I put my head down on the table and really started to cry.
    I don’t know how long I sobbed, but when I finally lifted my head, MarshaMarsha handed me a much-needed wad of tissues. I dried my eyes, blew my nose a lot, and took several long, deep breaths. Then Patricia handed me another martini, which went down much smoother than the first one. The second always does.
    “You,” Patricia said distinctly, “need to call Brian’s mother.”
    I stared at her. “Phyllis? Why do I need to call Phyllis?”
    “Because,” MarshaMarsha said, “she’s his mother, and in her eyes, he can do no wrong. You need to call her and tell her what happened before he does so she knows what a snake he really is. If he gets to her first, she’ll think this is all your doing and start telling all the relatives how happy she is that he finally got out of his hellish marriage.”
    “Oh, my God. Really?” I was shocked. “No, Phyllis likes me. She would never approve of his leaving.”
    MarshaMarsha was shaking her head. “Honey, believe me. When it comes to mothers-in-law, the Italians and the Jews are only separated by their opinion of pork. I know. Call her. Tell her. And then ask for her help in getting him back, so your family doesn’t end up on the cover of Broken Homes Monthly.”
    I looked at Patricia for confirmation. She was holding the phone in her hand. I nodded. She hit speed dial and handed me the phone.
    Phyllis Berman, at 78, is still physically spry, mentally agile, and happily living in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, in the same sprawling, three-bedroom apartment that she raised her family in. When her husband, Lewis, died, we were all a little worried about her living alone. But Phyllis posted an ad on the bulletin board at Brooklyn School of Law. She had two empty bedrooms and an extra bathroom, so she turned them into a very nice suite and, for the past ten years, has had a series of young and accommodating law students living with her. She charges them an incredibly nominal rent, and in exchange, they help with errands, keep her company at mealtimes, and make sure she takes all her required medications. It’s a perfect arrangement. And she gets free legal advice whenever she wants or needs it.
    Phyllis is another one without caller ID. I don’t know how people do it, but she says she likes being surprised.
    “Phyllis, it’s Mona.”
    “Mona, my favorite daughter-in-law,” she said. It’s an old joke, but she loves it.
    “Phyllis,” I said, my voice a little shaky, “I’ve got some not-so-good news. Are you sitting down?”
    “Yes. Mona, is it Jessica?” My poor daughter.
    “No. Phyllis, I don’t know what to do. Brian has met another woman.”
    There was a very long pause. “My Brian? Another woman? No, Mona, I think you must be mistaken. Brian works very hard, you know. If he hasn’t been coming home some nights, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”
    “He’s been coming home fine, Phyllis.” I said, my voice getting stronger. “That’s not it. He told me himself.”
    Pause. “What did he say exactly, dear? I mean, men are entitled to have friends. If he met somebody nice, so what? Don’t jump to any hasty conclusions. Invite her to dinner. I’m sure that once you get to know her, you’ll find her to be a delightful person.”
    This was becoming much harder than I had anticipated. “Phyllis. Listen to me. Brian told me that he has met another woman and that he’s in love with her.”
    “Hold on, dear. I need to get a drink of water.” I could