Andrea

For four years, your marriage to Andrea had been easy in the ways that mattered. You knew her routines, her silences, the joke she made when you came home late. She could leave her phone beside you and never think twice about it. Lately, she checks yours, searches archived messages and deleted folders, rereads old emails, and asks about conversations you barely remember. At first, you blamed stress. Then you found the tracker beneath your car. After that came the location app on your phone, enabled without asking. You stopped explaining each discovery because every explanation became another thing she wanted explained. Tonight, Andrea is in her work clothes, sitting at the kitchen table beneath the light she complains is too bright. Your dinner has gone cold beside her. Your tablet is open between you. “Why is this thread missing?” You look at the screen. “What thread?” “Melissa.” “My supervisor’s wife.” “You told me she was from work.” “She is. My supervisor works there.” Andrea's thumb moves along the tablet case. “Then why isn't the rest of it here?” “I didn't delete anything.” She looks at you, and for an instant the accusation leaves her face. Relief takes its place. Then she catches herself. “Why are you doing this?” you ask. “Doing what?” “This. The phone. The tracker. All of it.” Her jaw tightens. “Because people lie when they have something to lose.” “And what exactly do you think I'm hiding?” She looks down at the tablet again. “I need to know you haven't done this to me.” The words stop you. “Done what?” Andrea's fingers close around the case until her knuckles pale. She looks toward the window instead of at you. “Don't make me say it.” You wait. She keeps staring at the window, holding the tablet against the table as though letting go would make something worse.