Rebecca started asking more questions about where I was.
At first, that made sense.
My job moved me between houses.
A flood restoration in the north side.
A fire-damaged kitchen two suburbs over.
A historic property outside the city.
Sometimes schedules changed during the day.
If I said I would be home at six and arrived at seven fifteen, she wanted to know why.
Normal.
Then she started checking my phone location.
We had enabled family location sharing years earlier after Rebecca got stranded during a snowstorm.
I barely thought about it.
“Why were you on Hawthorne Avenue at two?”
“Supply house.”
“You said you were working on the Patterson place.”
“I needed fittings.”
Another time:
“You were at the coffee shop for forty minutes.”
“Meeting a subcontractor.”
“Who?”
“Danny.”
“Danny who?”
I laughed.
“What is this, customs?”
Rebecca didn’t laugh.
“You’re acting weird.”
“I’m drinking coffee.”
“Never mind.”
Those moments were small.
I told myself married people knew where each other were.
Rebecca handled our phone plan.
Our shared calendar.
Most automatic payments.
She knew my passwords because I had never cared enough to hide them.
Convenience can look exactly like trust until trust disappears.
About eight months before she told me she didn’t love me, Rebecca started sleeping differently.
That sounds insignificant.
It wasn’t.
For eleven years, she slept curled toward the center of the bed.
Then she began sleeping near the edge.
Back toward me.
Phone charging on the floor beside her instead of on our shared nightstand.
We still had sex occasionally.
Still ate dinner together.
Still went to her sister’s house on Sundays.
But some invisible distance had appeared.
I tried asking.
“Are we okay?”
Rebecca kept looking at her laptop.
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
“You seem far away.”
“I’m tired.”
“From work?”
“From everything.”
I waited.
She didn’t continue.
I should have pushed harder.
Instead, I accepted the answer because accepting it was easier.
That became a pattern.
One Saturday, she spent almost the entire afternoon reorganizing our office.
She shredded old papers.
Cleaned drawers.
Moved files.
At one point she held up an old canvas duffel bag.
“You still use this?”
I looked over.
It was dark green, frayed at one handle.
I had owned it since college.
“Sometimes.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“You haven’t touched it in years.”
“Then why ask?”
“I’m cleaning.”
“Keep it.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You keep everything.”
That moment came back to me later.
At the time, it meant nothing.
Three months before the separation, we had our first real fight about privacy.
I came home to find Rebecca holding my tablet.
“What?”
She set it down.
“Who’s Amanda?”
I stared.
“Amanda?”
“You messaged her.”
I looked at the screen.
Amanda Lewis.
A client.
I had sent:
I’ll be there around 8 tomorrow. Please leave the basement accessible if you head to work before then.
“That’s a customer.”
Rebecca looked embarrassed for perhaps two seconds.
Then defensive.
“You’ve never mentioned her.”
“I don’t mention most homeowners.”
“It came across strangely.”
“How?”
“You said you’d be there at eight.”
“To fix a basement wall.”