His phone was unlocked, face-up on the counter. I didn't have to snoop or decode a single thing. The contact name did all the work.

He only picked up her phone to silence the alarm. The thread glowing on the screen had nothing to do with mornings, and everything to do with someone before him.

He swore he was pulling a twelve-hour overnight at the hospital. At one in the morning, my phone lit up with a receipt that said otherwise.

I thought confession was the worst part. I had no idea the past was waiting in line behind the present.

I came home from a work trip exhausted and grateful. Then my son, half asleep, asked me a question I will never stop hearing.

He bought a second phone so I'd never see what was on it. He forgot that a car has its own memory.