When Sorry Isn't Enough

I'm trying, you guys. I'm trying to build again. I'm trying to remember to focus on work and to bring some interesting stories home, to be supportive, to listen, to try to remember the advice I often give others: That it's rarely about you, it's about the other person when there's unsettledness about.

But last night I found out, after doing some Inquisition-style questioning, that GPOM's been lying to me. Lying. I hate lying. And not about important things, but about small, dumb things, like where he's been eating lunch. He's been coming home and telling me about the Subway(c) sandwiches he's eaten, how he's not having cheese on them because he's watching his weight but how he just couldn't resist a meatball sub one day, about the multi-generational owners and the chit-chat they share now that he's a regular at that restaurant.

But there's one small problem: I can see all the bank accounts, and I know he's been living off of Taco Bell and Chick-Fil-A. And I don't care, you guys, I really don't. My only concern is that eating out every day gets expensive fast, and we're trying to live on a rather tight budget for a while (car insurance is due this month, on two cars). But why lie about where you're eating? Why tell me lies about conversations that never happened?

Last night he said he went out for post-work cocktails with coworkers, but he didn't tell me because he didn't want me to be mad. Why would I be mad about drinks with friends? I asked him if he ever intended to tell me, and he said no.

I don't know. I wish I understood why he feels the need to lie. Am I that scary; have I been that overbearing?