It was true what they said–snooping doesn’t pay off. You get more pain than satisfaction out of it. But I just couldn’t help myself, could I?
I sit at the breakfast table, picking at my plate of eggs and sausage. He shuffles towards the coffee-maker, rumpled and yawning. The man I love. The man I know. The man I thought I knew.
But then I remember that I’ve seen his browsing history. The websites he went to late at night. Those pictures of strange men. I have to ask, even though I realize it will wreck everything.
“Honey, did…did you vote for Trump?”
He turns around and stares. “What?”
“Don’t lie. You’ve been reading Breitbart.”
“And you’ve been checking up on me.” With a sudden burst of energy, he strides out of the kitchen. “That’s an invasion of my privacy.”
“This is for your own good,” I plead, getting up…
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