I entered the code. It unlocked.

I clicked through his messages first. Nothing. Just work threads and group chats about fantasy football. But then I saw a utility folder hidden on the third page of his home screen.

Inside was a second Instagram app. I didn’t even know you could have two of them on one phone. I tapped it.

An account named “@David_The_Wild” popped up. He had 2,400 followers. And every single one of them seemed to be a young woman.

I started scrolling. I couldn’t draw a breath. It was like looking at a stranger’s life, except the background was my house. There were photos of our newly renovated kitchen. Pictures of the steaks I had seasoned and grilled, captioned: “My Sunday night routine. Keeping it simple.” There was a photo of our trip to Destin, Florida, last summer. The vacation I had saved for by skipping lunches for an entire year. He had cropped me completely out of the frame. In my place was just his solo smiling face against the ocean, with a caption about “seeking solo peace.”

But it got so much worse.

He had different women tagged in his posts nearly every week. Young girls, mostly in their early 20s. He called one “My queen” in a comment under a photo of a coffee shop downtown. He told another she was “gorgeous” and that he couldn’t wait for their next “business lunch.”

And then I found the video.

My fingers froze on the glass. It was a video of me. I was sleeping in our bed, wearing an old, oversized gray t-shirt with a stain on the collar. The camera zoomed in close on my face, catching the way my mouth was slightly open.

The caption read: “She has no idea. She’s too trusting.” It had 14,000 likes. The comments underneath were a nightmare. People laughing at me. Women saying they could never be that clueless. One comment said, “She looks like a grandma, you deserve a real partner, David.”

I sat on that bathroom floor and felt sick to my stomach. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. My body just went entirely numb. I felt a cold, dull weight settle behind my ribs.

I spent the next 3 hours taking screenshots. I took 327 screenshots of every single post, every tagged woman, every comment, and the direct messages he had exchanged with some of them. I emailed them all to my work account. I made sure they were saved on three different servers.

At 6 AM, I went to the dental clinic. I got there before anyone else, before the heat even kicked on in the building. The air was freezing. I stood by the big office laser printer and printed every single one of those screenshots. The heavy paper kept sliding out of the tray, warm and smelling of fresh ink. 327 pages of my husband’s secret life. I stacked them neatly in a heavy manila folder.