He blamed late shifts for the empty side of the bed. The navigation app remembered every turn he swore he never took.

She told him it was a grow lamp for her fig tree. He believed her completely. Three nights later, the motion alert buzzed at 4 a.m.

My wife told me over a half-eaten sandwich, the way you'd mention rain on the way. Then she explained what the dinner parties had really been for.

My husband automated his life down to the minute. One scheduled text on the wrong day told me everything he had been hiding for two years.

Marcus was forty minutes across the city at his desk. So why did my phone say our oven was warming up at two in the afternoon?

He deleted the app, cleared his history, covered every track he could think of. He just forgot the one inbox we had always shared.