It was an ordinary Tuesday night, the kind of night where everything feels safe and predictable. My husband, Mark, was snoring softly beside me, the rhythmic sound that usually lulled me to sleep. I was scrolling through my phone one last time when the battery icon turned red and flashed—1%.
My own charger had frayed a week ago, and I’d been meaning to buy a new one. In the dark, I reached over to Mark’s side of the bed. His phone was plugged into the wall, the little green light glowing. I didn’t want to wake him, so I moved carefully, intending to just swap the cords so my phone could survive the night.
When I unplugged his phone to take the cable, the screen lit up.
I wasn’t looking for anything. I wasn’t a suspicious wife. I didn’t have his passcode because I felt I needed it; I had it because we shared everything. But as the screen brightened, a notification banner popped up that stopped my heart.
