The night my life cracked open, my phone lit up my bedroom like a police siren.
It was 2:45 a.m. in our quiet Pittsburgh suburb, the kind of Pennsylvania cul-de-sac where people leave flags on their porches and pretend bad things only happen on the news. Next to me, my husband Paul slept on his side of the bed, his back turned to me the way it had been most nights lately.
The buzzing wouldn’t stop.
It wasn’t the soft ping of a text or the cheerful chime of an email. This sound was sharper, insistent, like an alarm someone forgot to turn off.
Half asleep, I squinted at the screen.
SecureTrack Alert: Location data accessed.
Secure… what?
My name is Sabrina Matthews, and that notification was the first domino. Everything that fell after it took my marriage, my house, and the version of “family” I thought I had.
I didn’t remember downloading any app called SecureTrack. It wasn’t on my home screen. Was it something for school? A grading plug-in? A parent app?
I slid out of bed as quietly as I could. Paul didn’t stir. Sixteen years of marriage, and the man could sleep through an earthquake.
The blue glow followed me down the hallway. I passed my daughter’s room—Alyssa, fifteen, the only person in that house who still hugged me without thinking about it. Her door was cracked, fairy lights glowing over a tangle of blankets and long hair. She had no idea her mother’s world was starting to tilt.
In the kitchen, I flipped on the light and opened my settings. The house hummed softly—the fridge, the heater, the distant whir of traffic on I-279.
There it was.
SecureTrack. Buried deep. Running in the background. Always allowed. No icon. No notifications.
Until now.
My throat went dry.
When I opened the app, a map appeared. Red dots traced my entire week: the high school where I teach English, my regular Sunday coffee with my friend Caitlyn downtown, the grocery store, the gas station—everywhere I’d been.
Even the jewelry store in Shadyside where I’d stopped last Tuesday to buy Paul an anniversary gift.
My hand shook so hard I nearly dropped the phone.
I dug deeper.
Texts. Call history. Email headers. A log of every website I’d visited. There were folders labeled Audio and Media that made my skin crawl.
Someone wasn’t just tracking where I went.
They were listening.
Another alert slid across the top of the screen.
SecureTrack: Audio recording in progress.
My heart stopped.
I tapped the Audio folder and scrolled to the newest file, timestamped three days ago. My thumb hesitated, then pressed play.
My own voice spilled into the empty kitchen.
“I don’t know, Caitlyn,” I heard myself say, soft and tired. “Paul’s been different lately. Always on his phone. Working late. It just… feels off.”
I slapped the screen, stopping the recording. My stomach lurched.
That conversation had been at a café near campus. A private vent with my oldest friend. No one else around. No visible mic. No reason anyone should have heard it except the woman sitting across from me.
Someone had been recording me. Monitoring me. Building a file.
For an app like this to be installed, someone would’ve needed physical access to my phone. And who had more access to my phone than the man snoring upstairs?
Footsteps creaked overhead, steady and familiar. Paul. Probably going to the bathroom like he did every night around this time.
For the first time in sixteen years, the sound of my husband’s footsteps made my skin prickle.
I closed every screen, cleared the alerts, and forced my breathing to slow.
Don’t panic. Don’t react. Don’t tip your hand.
I teach Shakespeare to teenagers. I spend my days explaining how characters lose everything the second they act before they think. I was not about to become one of them.
I slipped back into bed, turned my phone face down, and stared at the ceiling. I didn’t sleep.
Around 3:30 a.m., just when my eyes finally started to burn with exhaustion, the phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
Be careful what you look for, Sabrina.
Some truths are better left buried.
I lay there in the dark, heart pounding, and understood one thing with absolute clarity.
Whoever was watching me wasn’t just curious.
They were scared.
By 7:00 a.m., the house smelled like coffee and toast, and I was performing my role: the reliable mom in a Pittsburgh suburb, packing a school lunch with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling.
Paul came down the stairs in his sharp navy suit, the one he saved for “big days” at the downtown law firm. He kissed Alyssa’s hair but didn’t bother with my cheek.
“Big meeting?” I asked, keeping my voice light as I slid turkey slices onto bread.
He poured coffee into his travel mug. “Morrison account,” he said. “Client’s threatening to jump ship. Might be a late one.”
The Morrison account. The same client he’d invoked three times in the last two weeks.
“Right.” I spread mayo, watching him from the corner of my eye, a stranger in my kitchen. “Long hours again.”
He didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t. Paul had been a defense attorney for years. He knew how to wear a story like a custom suit.
“Dad,” Alyssa said, walking in with her hair still damp from the shower, hoodie halfway zipped. “You promised you’d help me this weekend. My computer science project? The one about digital privacy and security?”
The knife nearly slipped from my hand.
Paul’s shoulders stiffened, just barely. “Can’t this weekend, kiddo. Something’s come up at work. Rain check.”
“Right. Work.” Alyssa’s tone was too quiet, too sharp. She might only be fifteen, but she’d inherited my radar for nonsense.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
SecureTrack: Audio recording saved. Kitchen 6:30 a.m.
I snatched it up before Alyssa could see the screen.
“Mom,” she said slowly, crossing her arms. “You look like you haven’t slept. And that’s the same plate you’ve washed three times now.”
I set it down, turning the faucet off. “Finals season,” I lied. “My juniors think MLA format is optional. It’s a dark time.”
She didn’t laugh. “I heard you walking around last night. And Dad never came to bed after… what, three?”
The lie tasted metallic. “He wasn’t feeling well. Go grab your backpack. We’re running late.”
She stared at me for one long, painful beat, then dropped it—for now.
When she left the room, my phone buzzed again.
Careful who you trust, Sabrina.
Caitlyn might not be the friend you think she is.
I looked up at Paul.
Perfect posture. Perfect tie. Perfect calm.
I looked at the man I’d shared a bed, a mortgage, and a daughter with for sixteen years and realized I didn’t know if he was the one spying on me.
But I did know this:
I couldn’t trust anyone on the other side of that screen.
Tony Reyes’s office in downtown Pittsburgh sat between a laundromat and a strip-mall pizza place, about as glamorous as a tax return. Inside, it smelled like burnt coffee and old leather.
“You sure you want the truth?” he asked, flipping through the screenshots I’d printed of the SecureTrack app. “People think they do until I hand it to them.”
“Try me,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. I was proud of that.
Tony wasn’t the Hollywood version of a private investigator. No trench coat. No dramatic scar. Just a tired man in his late forties with sharp eyes and a sharper mind, wearing a shirt that had seen better pressings.
“SecureTrack Pro,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “This isn’t your basic jealous-spouse spyware. This is enterprise-grade. You can’t buy this in the App Store.”
“Can you trace it?” I asked.
“Already did.” He turned his monitor toward me. “License was bought five weeks ago. Paid through a shell company in Delaware. But whoever set it up got cocky.”
He zoomed in on the billing info.
The address punched me in the gut.
My house.
He kept going. “Shell company’s been making regular payments to this place—Oakwood Heights, luxury apartments on the riverfront.” He tapped a photo of a sleek glass building across the river from downtown. “Rent’s high. Too high for someone living there alone. Unless they have help.”
“From my husband,” I whispered.
Tony clicked to another set of images. “From your husband,” he confirmed.
The photos were mostly grainy, shot from a distance. But they were clear enough for me to recognize Paul’s broad shoulders, his familiar suit. And the woman next to him—a younger brunette in a fitted blazer, laughing at something he’d said as his hand rested on the small of her back.
“Her name’s Erica Carr,” Tony said. “Junior partner at his firm. Rising star. On track for partner in a couple years, from what my guy in the courthouse says.”
My phone buzzed in my purse.
I didn’t look.
“And there’s more,” Tony added, sliding a paper folder across the desk. “Consultation with a divorce attorney last week. Same shell company. Same IP addresses as the spyware logs.”
My head spun.
“He’s… planning to leave?” The words felt thick, as if my mouth didn’t want to form them.
“Looks that way.” Tony’s voice softened, but his eyes stayed steady. “But here’s the twist: this spyware? It wasn’t his idea.”
I looked up. “What do you mean?”
“I mean Erica pushed for it.” He tapped an email printout. “She recommended SecureTrack. Convinced him to ‘protect himself.’ That’s the phrase she used.”
Protect himself.
From me.
My phone buzzed again. I finally checked.
Having fun with Tony, Sabrina?
Wonder what Paul would think about his wife meeting strange men in secret.
I showed Tony the screen. His jaw tightened.
“They’re watching through your phone’s camera,” he said. “Video, audio, GPS. The whole package.”
He scribbled a number on a sticky note and handed it to me. “Burner. Don’t call me from your phone again. And Sabrina?”
“Yeah?”
“People who use this kind of surveillance on their family…” He held my gaze. “They don’t stop on their own.”
On my way back to the car, my phone rang.
Paul.
I let it buzz three times before answering.
“Hey,” he said, all easy charm. “Just checking—can you grab Alyssa after school? The Morrison meeting’s going long.”
I stared through the windshield at the traffic moving across the Fort Duquesne Bridge.
“Funny thing about that account,” I said. “Morrison closed their business five months ago. They listed it in that local business journal you love to brag about reading.”
Silence.
“You must’ve missed that issue,” I added. “Maybe Erica has a copy.”
“Sabrina—”
I hung up.
My hands were shaking, but my voice had been steady. Somewhere under the fear and hurt, another feeling was starting to grow.
Anger.
Hot. Focused. Very, very awake.
If they wanted to watch me, fine.
Let them see what happens when you push someone too far.
The next ambush came at work.
I’d barely finished third period when the intercom crackled: “Mrs. Matthews? Please report to the principal’s office.”
Alyssa appeared in my doorway as my students filed out, her expression tight. “Mom,” she whispered, “I found something on Dad’s laptop.”
Not now, I wanted to say. But the look in her eyes stopped me.
“What did you find?” I asked.
“Emails,” she said. “Dozens. To someone named Erica. And folders labeled ‘SecureTrack’ and ‘Contingency.’” Her voice wobbled. “He’s planning to leave us, isn’t he?”
I didn’t get to answer. A student popped his head back in. “Mrs. Matthews? Mr. Owen said it’s urgent.”
In the principal’s office, Paul sat in a chair beside Principal Owen, his courtroom face on. Concerned. Polished. Dangerous.
“Sabrina,” Owen began, clearing his throat. “There have been… concerns raised.”
“Concerns,” I repeated.
“About your emotional well-being,” Paul supplied gently, “and some… inappropriate contact with a private investigator during school hours. I’m worried about you, honey.”
There it was.
He was going to break me before I could break him.
“And with the students noticing you seem distracted,” Owen added carefully, “I thought maybe a short leave of absence—”
“Absolutely not,” I snapped, before I could stop myself.
My phone buzzed.
SecureTrack: Audio recording in progress. Location: Principal’s office.
I inhaled slowly.
“Interesting,” I said. “Because I also have concerns.”
Owen frowned. “About what, exactly?”
“About an illegal surveillance program recording school employees, students, and parents without consent.” I turned my phone so they could both see the SecureTrack interface. “Installed using my home address. Paid through a shell company linked to a law firm that happens to employ my husband.”
Owen’s face went white.
Paul’s smile vanished. “Sabrina, don’t—”
“I have records,” I cut in. “Screenshots. Email chains. GPS logs showing this spyware listening to conversations in my classroom, in the hallway, at parent-teacher conferences.” I met Owen’s eyes. “Would you like the school board to see how easily this app turned my phone into a listening device for anyone who paid the right company?”
Sweat beaded at Owen’s temple. “I… I wasn’t aware…”
“Of course you weren’t,” I said. “But now you are. So if anyone is taking a leave, it won’t be me.”
I stood.
“I’m going to talk to my daughter now,” I added. “She just discovered her father’s second life. Maybe we can all agree she needs me in her classroom more than you need me in this office.”
I walked out before either of them could speak.
In the hallway, my phone buzzed again.
This time, it wasn’t SecureTrack.
It was Tony.
Got something big. Erica’s not just the other woman.
Call me.
By the time Alyssa and I were back in Tony’s office that evening, the sun had dropped behind the Pittsburgh skyline and the city glowed in shades of orange and steel gray.
Alyssa sat hunched over her laptop, fingers moving at a speed I’d never seen outside a Marvel movie.
“It’s not just spyware,” she said, eyes fixed on the code. “It’s a whole network.”
Tony hovered behind her, impressed whether he wanted to be or not.
“These IP addresses,” Alyssa continued, zooming in. “They’re routing through different cities—Philadelphia, Chicago, Dallas—but they all connect to one central server. And look.” She brought up a list of law firms. “Dad’s firm isn’t the only one.”
Tony let out a low whistle. “Seventeen firms so far,” he murmured, reading the list. “All high-end. All handling messy divorce and corporate cases.”
“Spyware on spouses,” Alyssa said. “Listening to everything. Watching. Recording. If you have that much dirt…”
“You control the outcome before anyone ever steps into court,” Tony finished.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
They’re watching.
Don’t trust Paul.
Meet me at Millvale Riverfront Park in 45 minutes. – Erica
My stomach flipped.
Tony read over my shoulder. “It’s a trap.”
“Probably,” I said. “But she’s scared. And she might be the only one deep enough inside to blow this up.”
Alyssa’s voice pulled my attention back to the screen. “Mom,” she said quietly, “you need to see this.”
She opened a different folder in the code. “SecureTrack isn’t just recording things,” she said. “It’s… fabricating them.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She clicked a file. A muffled audio played: my voice—or something that sounded like my voice—saying things I knew I’d never said.
Flirty remarks. Suggestive logs. Conversations with a man whose voice I didn’t recognize. Fake screenshots of chats that never existed. Photos clumsily edited to show me in places I’d never been, at times I was home.
I felt sick.
“They were building an alternate version of you,” Alyssa said, her voice shaking with fury. “Something they could use in court. To make you look unfit. Unfaithful. Unsafe for me.”
Insurance.
In case I ever became a threat.
My phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t the unknown number.
It was a video.
Alyssa walking home from school yesterday, headphones in, backpack bouncing. Filmed from a distance.
Back off, or she’s next.
I stood up so fast my chair scraped the floor.
“Mom—” Alyssa began.
“We’re done playing,” I said.
Tony moved to block the door. “You can’t meet them alone. They’re escalating. This is when people get hurt.”
“Then we make sure it’s not us,” I said. “Alyssa, can you shut down their system for a few minutes at a time?”
She nodded, eyes blazing. “If they’re overconfident? Yes. I can knock them offline in short bursts. Ten minutes, maybe. Just don’t ask me how I know that.”
“Tony,” I said, “you said you had a friend in the FBI cybercrime unit?”
He lifted his phone. “On speed dial.”
“Good,” I replied. “Call him. Tell him to be at Millvale Riverfront Park in forty-five minutes.”
Alyssa grabbed my wrist. “You’re not going without backup.”
“You are my backup,” I said, cupping her cheek. “You and Tony. You take down their system. You route everything you find to that FBI friend. You make sure no one can bury this once it’s out.”
“And you?” she asked, eyes shiny.
I exhaled slowly.
“I’m going to look my husband in the eye,” I said, “and watch the life he built on lies go up in flames.”
Millvale Riverfront Park sat just across the Allegheny River from downtown Pittsburgh, the city’s lights smeared across the water like neon fingerprints. At night, it was mostly joggers, the occasional couple, and, apparently, people whose entire lives were about to collide.
Erica sat alone on a bench, arms wrapped around herself despite the warm evening air. Without the heels and power blazer, she looked young. Vulnerable. Human.
“They’re watching,” she said as I approached, eyes flicking to my phone. “But your daughter’s good. We’ve got maybe eight minutes before SecureTrack boots back up.”
“You sound pretty sure,” I said.
A small, humorless laugh escaped her. “I’ve been living with this thing on my devices longer than you have.”
She handed me a USB drive, her fingers trembling.
“The firm has been running this operation for years,” she said. “Spyware on clients, on spouses, on whatever target they need. They collect everything—calls, texts, locations, private therapy sessions. Then they twist it, edit it, fabricate what they can’t find.”
“And the money laundering?” I asked.
“Side business,” she said bitterly. “When you control that much information, it’s easy to make numbers disappear.”
My phone buzzed.
A text from Alyssa.
We’re in. You’ve got 10 minutes. After that, I can’t guarantee anything.
“What do they have on you?” I asked Erica.
She swallowed. “My sister.”
She pointed across the river at a low building I recognized. A women’s shelter where I volunteered sometimes, helping with résumé workshops.
“She’s been hiding from her ex for five months,” Erica continued. “He’s… persistent. The firm found her. They sent me photos. Told me if I didn’t help with their ‘security project,’ they couldn’t guarantee she’d stay… undisturbed.”
I felt my anger twist into something colder.
“They used my daughter’s college fund,” I said quietly. “Your sister. Other people’s secrets. All to prop up a network of control.”
Boots crunched on gravel behind us.
“I really wish you’d stayed out of this, Sabrina,” a familiar voice said.
Paul stepped out of the shadows.
He wasn’t alone.
Three men in dark suits flanked him, the kind of men who blended into corporate lobbies and backrooms equally well.
Erica went rigid.
“Funny place for a client meeting,” I said.
Paul ignored that. “You weren’t supposed to find the app,” he said. “That was Erica’s mistake.”
She flinched.
“She got sloppy,” he added, like he was talking about a missed comma in a contract.
“And you didn’t?” I asked. “Licensing spyware with our home address? Using our daughter’s college fund as a washing machine? Renting your love nest in your own name? You’re not as clever as you think, Paul.”
He exhaled, as if I were being unreasonable.
“The firm is offering you a way out,” he said calmly. “Clean divorce. A comfortable settlement. Full custody of Alyssa to me—for stability, of course. All you have to do is walk away, quietly, and stop digging.”
Behind him, one of the men shifted his weight. His jacket moved just enough for me to see a bulge at his hip. I didn’t need a law degree to know what it was.
“You’d take my daughter?” I asked, every word etched in ice. “After everything you’ve done?”
“I’m protecting her,” Paul snapped. “You’re unraveling, meeting private investigators, hacking into systems you don’t understand. This isn’t you, Sabrina. Let me handle it. Let the adults handle it.”
My phone buzzed.
A text from Tony.
FBI in position. Stream live NOW.
I held Paul’s gaze.
“You know,” I said, “for someone so obsessed with control, you really shouldn’t have trusted a teenager with a gift for code.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
I lifted my phone and turned the screen toward him.
A red timer blinked at the top.
“Say hi to the FBI,” I said. “You’ve been streaming live for the last three minutes.”
His face drained of color.
“You didn’t think you were the only one who knew how to weaponize a phone, did you?” I added.
Flashlights flared at the edges of the park.
“Federal agents!” a voice shouted. “Hands where we can see them!”
The three men in suits scattered like roaches. Paul didn’t move, caught between me, the USB in my hand, and the growing ring of flashlights closing in.
“Sabrina,” he pleaded, his carefully constructed persona crumbling. “Please. Think about Alyssa. Think about what this will do to her.”
“I am,” I said. “That’s why I’m ending this.”
Agents swarmed. Erica was pulled aside, quickly separated, a female agent murmuring to her about witness protection and safety for her sister. Another agent asked for the drive in my hand. Tony emerged from the darkness, breathless, flashing a badge I didn’t know he had.
Through it all, Paul kept his eyes on me.
“This isn’t over,” he said as they cuffed him, voice low, venom replacing charm. “The firm protects its own. You have no idea what you’ve started.”
I stepped back as they led him away.
“No,” I said quietly. “I have a very clear idea.”
Because for the first time since that 2:45 a.m. alert, I wasn’t the one being watched.
They were.
The federal holding room in downtown Pittsburgh was colder than any courtroom I’d ever seen. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A metal table sat between me and the man in the orange jumpsuit.
Paul still tried to sit like a lawyer. Straight spine. Confident tilt to his chin. Like the handcuffs were just a temporary inconvenience.
“You could’ve taken the deal,” he said. “We could’ve kept our family.”
I placed the USB drive Erica had given me on the table.
“Which family are we talking about?” I asked. “The one on Oakwood Heights, or the one you spied on in the suburbs?”
He sighed like I was being dramatic.
“You don’t understand how things work in my world,” he said.
“I understand perfectly,” I replied, sliding a stack of printouts toward him—bank statements, emails, server logs, Alyssa’s annotated code in the margins. “You traded people for power. Every time.”
A knock sounded at the door.
When it opened, Alyssa stepped in, laptop hugged to her chest. Tony stood behind her, leaning in the doorway.
I hadn’t wanted her here.
She’d insisted.
“Sweetheart,” Paul began, standing halfway before the cuffs yanked him back down. “You shouldn’t—”
“I found the rest of it,” Alyssa said, cutting him off. Her voice shook, but her words didn’t. “In the code.”
He froze.
“The program wasn’t just spying on Mom,” she continued. “It was creating fake evidence. Fake chats. Fake calls. Fake photos. They were building a case against her. Against your own wife.”
Paul’s jaw clenched. “It wasn’t my choice.”
“Did you stop it?” she asked.
“Did you warn her?”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
That was answer enough.
Outside the room, I could see Erica being led past, flanked by agents. Behind her, a line of senior partners from the firm shuffled in, looking smaller without their expensive suits and polished arrogance.
The whole structure was collapsing from the inside.
“What happens now?” Paul asked finally, eyes darting between Alyssa and me.
“Now?” I repeated.
I looked at my daughter, who had taken their weapon and turned it into our shield. At Tony, who had become something like family without ever sharing our last name. At the chaos beyond the glass, where the firm’s partners argued with federal agents and realized money couldn’t buy everything after all.
“Now we rebuild,” I said. “Without you.”
Alyssa slung her laptop bag over her shoulder.
“Goodbye, Dad,” she said quietly. “Mom protected me. You protected your power. That’s the only difference I need to remember.”
We left him there under the buzzing lights, surrounded by the ruins of his empire.
For the first time since that night in our Pennsylvania bedroom, I walked away without looking back.
Five months later, our new apartment in Pittsburgh was small, a little noisy, and absolutely perfect.
Traffic hummed outside the windows instead of rustling trees, and instead of a formal dining room we had a folding table, two mismatched chairs, and Alyssa’s makeshift tech station taking up half the wall.
“Mom!” she shouted from the other side of the room. “They accepted me!”
I nearly dropped the dish I was drying. “Who did?”
She spun her laptop around, eyes glowing. “Carnegie Mellon’s summer cyber security program. Full scholarship.”
My chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with anxiety.
“You did it,” I said, crossing the room to pull her into a hug. “You actually did it.”
She laughed into my shoulder. “We did it. If you hadn’t dragged me into this mess, I’d still be doing basic Python exercises.”
I pulled back. “If you hadn’t dragged us out of it, I’d probably still be in a holding room trying to convince a school board I wasn’t crazy. So we’re even.”
My phone buzzed.
A text from Erica.
Coffee tomorrow? Caitlyn’s coming.
We want your input on the shelter’s new security system.
I smiled.
Erica had taken a plea deal, handed over every file, every password, every hidden backup. In exchange, she’d gotten probation and a new purpose: helping secure the women’s shelter where her sister now lived without fear.
Caitlyn and I had forgiven each other too. Turned out the mysterious threats about her had been another manipulation, not a betrayal. She’d thrown herself into digital safety advocacy with the kind of loud, fearless passion only she could pull off at a Pittsburgh conference podium.
“Think fast,” Alyssa said, tossing me a small package.
I caught it. USB drive. Shaped like a key.
“It’s clean,” she said with a grin. “No spyware. Promise.”
I laughed, holding it up. “Good. One haunted device was enough for one lifetime.”
On my laptop, a Zoom window chimed.
“Professor Matthews?” a student asked. “Sorry, is now still okay for office hours?”
Even through a screen, teaching felt different now. Sharper. Deeper. My digital privacy unit wasn’t just theory anymore—it was survival.
“Give me five minutes, Jordan,” I said. “We’re celebrating a minor victory over the forces of chaos.”
“Nice,” he said. “I’ll grab coffee.”
As the call disconnected, I glanced at my phone. A new message had come in from an unknown number.
You thought you won.
Power always protects its own.
Once, that would’ve sent me spiraling. Now, I handed the phone to Alyssa.
She typed for a few seconds, traced the sender, snorted.
“Old partner from Dad’s firm,” she said. “Angry, unemployed, and very bad at hiding his IP address. Want me to send it to Tony?”
“No,” I said, deleting the message. “Let him scream into the void. We’ve got better things to do.”
The doorbell rang.
Caitlyn burst in with takeout boxes and enough energy to power the building. “Ladies!” she declared. “Ready to terrify half the school district with our digital privacy presentation?”
“Always,” I said.
Alyssa jumped up. “Wait until you see the demo,” she said. “I built a simulation that shows how fast a phone can be turned into a tracking device if you click the wrong link.”
I watched them—my fierce daughter, my loudest friend—crowding around the table, laptops and lo mein and sticky notes everywhere.
My life was smaller now.
No big house. No country club parties. No illusion of the perfect Pittsburgh family.
But it was real.
It was honest.
It was ours.
Some nights, when the apartment was quiet and the city glowed outside our windows, I thought about that first 2:45 a.m. notification. About the version of myself who saw “SecureTrack Alert” and felt only fear.
If I could talk to her now, I’d tell her this:
Yes, some truths hurt. Some truths burn.
But sometimes you have to let everything catch fire to see what was worth saving in the first place.
“Mom?” Alyssa called, snapping me back. “You coming? We’ve got a world to change.”
I grabbed plates from the cabinet, smiled, and stepped into the light of our cramped, beautiful kitchen.
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go fix a few things.”
