At 2:13 a.m., the phone lit. My wife's hand beat mine to it. She clutched it to her chest and called it spam. I didn't fight her. I packed a duffel, opened our family plan, and found a number saved as Hubby. Not mine. 230 calls in forty-five days—seven on the day I flew to Denver, two on our daughter's recital day. She went back to sleep while I printed every log, sealed it in an envelope, wrote her name on the front, and left before sunrise. Then came her texts: Please come home. This is not what you think. But I have the dates, the durations, the hours that match no work schedule. I didn't take the phone. I took the proof. Now the wife who guarded a screen instead of her marriage will have to explain it to an empty kitchen.