My husband’s phone is Schrödinger’s Box

My husband’s phone is Schrödinger’s Box

Inside it our marriage is simultaneously alive and dead.

Even though I trust my husband, I know that we have entire worlds we keep to ourselves. In those worlds exist versions of each of us that we don’t show each other. Whereas in the 1980s or ‘90s a partner’s interests and pursuits would come with physical evidence- books, magazines, time away from home, a voice on one end of a phone call- now all manner of avocations are contained in one small mysterious box.

My mystery box opens up to secret worlds only known to me. The tabs I have opened in my browser, the notes I keep, and how they’re organized. The apps I’ve downloaded, and what they represent for me. And social media- the relationships I engage in there, some too minor to merit describing to my husband (like my mom’s friend who puts hearts on my instagram posts or my friend from high school who takes pictures of butterflies and sunsets), but that I go back to again and again. These form part of my social consciousness that is entirely unique to me, in a way that never could have been before.

Would I be comfortable with my husband picking up my phone and opening it without asking me first? Not really, no. He’d see all these parts of me I keep to myself. In my browser he’d find weird things I’ve looked up, words I didn’t know how to define that I should have, shopping carts containing products or clothes I’ve considered buying. In my social media dms he’d read conversations that wouldn’t make sense out of context. In my search history he’d see things I don’t admit out loud I’m curious about. He’d find too many selfies in my photos. If he picked up my phone and examined everything, my husband would see parts of me that make me feel vain, stupid, and shallow, and I’d be embarrassed.

But what he wouldn’t find on my phone is the end of our marriage. He wouldn’t find naked photos of me, or anyone else. He wouldn’t find flirtatious messages to other men. He wouldn’t find hook-up sites. He wouldn’t find porn.

How many marriages have ended this way? How many more are one discovery day away from ending? I’ll tell in short how my last relationship ended.

Saturday morning, 8 am. My house is sleeping and I am getting ready for work. As I’m about to leave I walk into the bedroom to wake my partner and say goodbye, and his phone alarm begins to sound. It’s on the table by the door, so I pick it up to hand it to him… and I just happen to look down at the screen.

(I shudder to imagine an alternate timeline where that one glance down never happened)

On the screen is a message preview. A text that reads “Hi, this is Kelly. I think we have something really good going and I’d like to get to know you better outside of kink. Just putting the ball in your court.”

This message sent to my partner of over 12 years, the father of my sons, the man I slept next to each night, my road trip partner, the person I wrote music with, bought a house with, painted rooms with, dug garden beds with, cooked with, shared friends with… this message was the tip of an iceberg of secrecy contained in his little box. And that little box had been with us on those road trips, in his pocket as we walked through life, on the counter, on the couch, next to the bed. The holder of secrets no one could see from outside.

If I had picked up his phone at any time prior to that morning and perused its contents I would have found all the kinds of things I keep hidden in mine, but I’d have also found the end of our world. How many other marriages are balanced on that knife’s edge?

The devastation of that discovery and betrayal is another story. I’ve been fortunate to have another chance at marriage: I’m about to celebrate my first anniversary with a man I love, respect, and admire. He’s my best friend, and I trust him.

But his phone is Schrödinger’s Box. Inside it our marriage is simultaneously alive and dead.

I give it a wide berth.