I know his name.
Not because she told me. She never would. I know because I saw the notification on her phone screen while we were watching a movie. An Instagram notification that disappeared way too fast to be casual.
"Daniel reacted to your message: 😂"
She grabbed the phone immediately. Reflex. Like when you touch a hot stove and pull your hand back before your brain even processes the pain.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"Hm? Nobody. Spam."
She unlocked it, checked, locked it again. Three seconds. Went back to watching TV like nothing had happened.
But something had happened.
And we know when something happens.
That was six weeks ago.
Since then, I've become the person I swore I'd never be: the guy who checks his wife's phone while she's in the shower.
I'm not proud of it. I don't wake up in the morning thinking, "Today I'm going to be an insecure, controlling husband." But I also can't sleep at night without knowing whether what I'm feeling is paranoia or instinct.
The first time I checked her phone was on a Saturday.
She had gone to the gym — "I'll take a while, there's a spinning class after" — and left her phone charging in the kitchen. I was making coffee. I saw the phone there, face down, and spent about five minutes just staring at it.
Thinking.
Calculating.
How long before she realizes she forgot it? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Will she come back?
Am I really the kind of person who does this?
I picked up the phone. My hand was shaking like a teenager stealing cigarettes from his dad.
The unlock code was my birthday. It always had been. That somehow made me feel worse. Like she trusted me enough to use my date, but I didn't trust her enough to respect her privacy.
I opened WhatsApp first.
Nothing strange. Family group. Work group. Chats with friends about normal things — gossip about people I don't know, complaining about bosses, photos of clothes asking "which color should I buy?"
Then Instagram.
Empty DMs. Like, too clean. No conversations. Not with friends. Not with brands. Not with anyone.
Weird.
Who has no conversations in their DMs?
I checked archived messages.
Empty too.
I checked message requests, those from people you don't follow.
Nothing.
I was starting to feel like an idiot — like, "look at you, suspecting your own wife for nothing" — when I remembered.
Secondary account.
People have them. To post nonsense. To follow exes without anyone seeing. To exist without supervision.
I went back to the profile screen. Clicked the little arrow in the corner. And there it was:
@not_julia_r
Private account. 47 followers. No profile picture. Last post two days ago.
I clicked.
It opened right away. She was logged in.
The photos were… normal? Like stuff she'd never post on her main account. A car selfie with no makeup. A meme screenshot. A sunset photo with an emo caption like "sometimes all you can do is endure."
Nothing alarming.
Until I saw the comments.
Always the same person.
@_dan_carvalho
"Beautiful"
"That smile ❤️"
"Miss seeing you laugh like that"
I clicked his profile.
Daniel Carvalho. 34 years old. Works in marketing. Lives in São Paulo — same city as us. Profile picture surfing. Feed full of gym, beach, motivational quotes.
The kind of guy who puts "CEO of my own life" in his bio.
The kind of guy I immediately want to punch.
I went back to her DMs.
And there it was.
A conversation with @_dan_carvalho.
Hundreds of messages.
I started scrolling. My hand shaking even more now. My heart pounding like when you're running and can't stop even when you want to.
The most recent messages were from last night. While we were "watching a movie."
Her: "I can't stop thinking about what you said earlier"
Him: "About?"
Her: "About us"
Him: "We don't officially exist, remember? 😅"
Her: "I know"
Him: "But we could"
Her: "Daniel…"
Him: "Sorry. I know it's complicated. But you know how I feel"
Her: "I feel it too. You know I do"
Him: "So why don't we do something about it?"
That's where the conversation stopped. Her last message was "I need to go" at 10:17 PM.
I looked at the kitchen clock. 9:05 AM. She'd been at the gym for fifteen minutes.
I had about forty minutes. Maybe.
I kept scrolling.
The conversation had started four months ago.
Four. Months.
At first it was professional. He'd worked with her on a freelance project. She mentioned him sometimes at dinner — "Daniel suggested a different approach," "Daniel is very creative." I didn't think much of it. Everyone has coworkers.
But then the project ended.
And they kept talking.
Him: "I miss working with you"
Her: "Me too. You made the days less boring haha"
Him: "We could grab a coffee sometime. Just to catch up"
Her: "That'd be nice"
They scheduled coffee.
Two weeks later.
I remember that day. She said she was meeting a friend. Came home at 6 PM, normal, smiling, kissed me like always.
Lied straight to my face.
After the coffee, the tone changed.
Him: "I had a really good time today"
Her: "Me too. I needed that"
Him: "Me or getting out of the house? haha"
Her: "Both, I think"
Him: "Are you okay? You seemed kind of… I don't know. Sad?"
Her: "Just tired. Of everything. You know how it is"
Him: "No. Tell me"
And she did.
I was standing there, in my own kitchen, reading my wife open up to another man about things she never told me.
About how she feels invisible at home.
About how I work too much and when I get home I just want silence.
About how we stopped having sex regularly and when we do, it feels like an obligation.
About how she doesn't know if she still loves me or if she just loves the idea of not being alone.
I had to sit down.
Because she was right.
All of it was true.
And I never asked. Never noticed. Never stopped to see that the woman I sleep next to every night was dying a little inside every evening.
The messages kept coming.
Him: "You deserve someone who sees you"
Her: "It's complicated"
Him: "It's only complicated if you decide it is"
Her: "I'm married, Daniel"
Him: "I know. So what?"
She went silent for two hours. Then:
Her: "We shouldn't be having this conversation"
Him: "But we are. That means something"
Her: "It means I'm weak"
Him: "It means you're human"
There were more coffees. More meetings. Always explained to me as "meeting a friend," "extra work," "I need to clear my head."
One day they went to the movies.
I remember because that day I asked her to go with me. She said she was tired. That she preferred staying home.
She went to the movies.
Just not with me.
Him: "Thanks for today. Seriously. I haven't laughed like that in a long time"
Her: "Me neither"
Her: "I feel terrible about this"
Him: "About laughing?"
Her: "About laughing with you and not with him"
Him: "Maybe that's what you're trying to tell yourself. That you're not happy there"
Her: "Or maybe I'm just a terrible person"
Him: "You're the most amazing person I know. And he doesn't deserve you if he can't see that"
There was one message from her, three weeks ago, that broke me in a way I didn't know was possible.
Her: "I wish he were you"
I don't know how long I stared at that sentence.
I wish he were you.
Like I was replaceable. Like all the time we spent together — seven years dating, three married — could be swapped for a guy who makes her laugh at the movies.
I kept scrolling.
The most recent conversation, from three days ago:
Him: "Have you ever thought about ending it?"
Her: "Every day"
Him: "Then end it"
Her: "It's not that simple"
Him: "It is. You're just scared"
Her: "I am. Of course I am. We built a life. There's the apartment. The dog. The civil marriage. Families that won't understand. Expectations. There's…"
Him: "Sorry. But none of that matters if you're not happy"
Her: "I don't know if I'm unhappy or if I just don't know what happiness is anymore"
Him: "Come here and I'll remind you"
She didn't reply to that.
But she didn't say no either.
I heard the key in the door.
I closed everything. Put the phone back exactly where it was. Went back to the coffee like nothing had happened.
She came in sweaty, smiling, still with her headphones on.
"Hey love, is the coffee ready?"
I forced a smile.
"It is."
She came over, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, grabbed a mug.
"How are you?"
"Fine. And you?"
"Tired. But good."
We had coffee together. Talked about empty things. She checked her phone three times in ten minutes. Always hiding the screen.
And I pretended not to notice.
That was six weeks ago.
Since then, I check her phone whenever I can. I know it's wrong. I know it turns me into exactly the kind of toxic husband she's probably complaining about to Daniel right now.
But I can't stop.
Because every time I look, there's more.
More messages.
More intimacy.
More plans.
They haven't slept together yet. At least that's what the messages suggest. But they will. I know they will. It's only a matter of time before she decides she deserves more than what I can give.
And you know what's worse?
She's not wrong.
I work too much. I come home exhausted. I spend more time answering emails than talking to her. We don't do anything together anymore. The last time we traveled was two years ago. The last time I stopped to ask how she was really doing was… I don't remember.
I lost her before I even realized I was losing her.
And now I don't know what to do.
Confront her? Say I saw the messages? Admit I invaded her privacy and become the villain even while being the victim?
Pretend I don't know? Keep living this lie until she decides to end it herself?
Or try to fix it? Become the man she fell in love with again? Admit I'm partly to blame and fight for her?
But how do you fight for someone who doesn't tell you they're unhappy? How do you fix something you didn't even know was broken?
I look at her now — she's on the couch, on her phone, probably talking to him — and I think:
Does she also lie awake at night wondering if I notice?
Does she want me to notice?
Is she waiting for me to give her a reason to stay, or an excuse to leave?
There's one message I saw yesterday that won't leave my head.
Him: "When you're truly mine, I'll make you the happiest person in the world"
Her: "Promise?"
Him: "I promise"
Her: "He promised too"