…”Go home, Ben. You’re on camera.”
I turned around. There was a small camera mounted on the porch post, pointed right at me. Its light was on.
I walked back across that field faster than I’ve ever walked anywhere. I sat in my car and shook. I told myself she was the crazy one. That she’d been following me. That I was the victim.
The next morning, a sheriff’s deputy knocked on my door and handed me papers. A temporary protective order. Against me.
Inside the envelope was a copy of her petition. I read it at my kitchen table. Day 1 was the day she’d found the tracking app on her phone. Seven months earlier. She’d noticed her battery dying faster than usual and taken it to a phone repair shop. The technician found the app I’d installed while she was in the shower.
She didn’t confront me. She’d been in a relationship before where confronting someone made things worse. Instead, she talked to a domestic violence advocate, who told her to document everything, safely, before she did anything else.
The farmhouse belonged to her aunt. It was the one place she could go that I’d never been, so she started driving there on Thursdays, knowing my app would show me the location. She wanted a record of exactly how often I checked, how far I’d go. Her advocate helped her hire a private investigator. The photos were his. Me checking my phone at 3 a.m. Me parked outside her work. Me at my own mother’s funeral, looking at her location instead of the casket.
Day 211 was the night I finally followed her. That was the whole case.
I’d like to tell you I argued with the order. I didn’t. I read her petition three times, and every word of it was true.
I’m writing this because I’ve spent the last eight months in a program for men who use control in relationships. It’s every Wednesday night. Most of the guys started out saying what I said. I’m not like that. I just worry. I just care.
Our counselor said something on my first night that I wrote down. “Love doesn’t need a tracking app. Fear does.” He’s right. I was terrified of losing her, so I made sure I did.
I haven’t contacted her. That’s part of the order, and it’s also the only thing I can still do right. If you’re reading this and you’re checking someone’s phone, stop. She already knows. They always know.
