She has a second, more private account… and that account is also watching my stories. (Um??)
There’s a third account—also hers—lurking on every single post.
Three accounts? This isn’t normal interest. There are noI love vintage furniturevibes I’m picking up from any of her posts. Just ass shots of her squatting more than I weigh and selfies taken at all the wrong angles for her square jawline.
This is dedicated surveillance. Single white female shit.
Then I see it. Another gym selfie, but this time she’s placing a kiss on aforementioned long-term boyfriend’s smug fucking cheek.
And suddenly… the habitually late… always-distracted… non-committal father to my child feels way more suspicious.
The picture confirms the link.
A creeping, sick thought blooms—
That son of a bitch is cheating on me.
And I’m being stalked… by a fucking dog account.
I should be heartbroken. Devastated. Enraged. But all I feel is this hot pulse of irritation curling low in my gut. Like my body’s too tired for heartbreak and too smart for denial.
I’ve just opened my own brick-and-mortar—something real, something mine—and now this is what I get?
Of course it is. So perfectly, patheticallyhim.
It explains everything. The distance. The weird excuses. The sudden need for privacy while I’ve been bleeding myself dry trying to build something that actually matters.
The weasel’s been acting sketchy for months.
I should’ve known. And maybe that’s what pisses me off the most.
Objectively, I’m intelligent. I put myself through college. I run two businesses—successfully.I’ve carried the bulk of our household expenses for years, which… depending on your definition of “mutual contribution,” could make a strong caseagainstmy intelligence.
I digress.
Meanwhile, Andrew’s latest excuse for his faltering funding efforts is still that elusivedeal. The one that’s been “almost final” for nine months. He talks about it like it’s a weather system he can’t quite predict. Unfortunate, inevitable, totally out of his control.
But hedoesgraciously offer to “pitch in more,” as if paying his own damn bills is some kind of charitable act.
On top of being the lead accountant of this dysfunctional union, I’ve packed every school lunch, folded every piece of clothing in our house, and mastered the delicate art of hiding vegetables in meals without raising suspicion. I know how to unclog a drain, file taxes, and schedule back-to-back meetings without breaking stride. I sign every permission slip, check every math assignment, double-check the reading logs, and somehow remember to send in the damn Kleenex box during cold season.
I have done everything right.
And still, after over a decade of shared bills, shared bed sheets, and a shared Google calendar, the man I lived with decided the grass looked greener in someone else’s delusional little field. A woman so self-assured she didn’t even think to ask upfront about his current relationship status before launching a full-blown surveillance mission onme, like I’m the threat in this equation.
The woman buying the groceries. Signing the field trip forms. Managing a life while he chases whatever spark he thinks is missing.
To be fair, he’s a solid father. We’ve managed to parent Bash with minimal drama—which, in this situation, is borderline miraculous. But outside of co-parenting logistics, things between us have been circling the drain for a while. Quietly. Consistently.
