I just liked a Facebook post from 2012. 

How I got here, I really don’t know. It’s been maybe five minutes. All I wanted was a little context, and now I’ve been caught red handed by his 4th grade soccer coach.

I started with a quick MyWhitman search, obviously. These are elementary sleuthing skills. “People and course search?” Who the hell is ever looking for courses?

All I have is a first name, but only 3 results pop up. That was way too easy. The picture is unflattering, but then again, it always is. What else? Lives in Seattle. Big surprise there. Where’s the originality these days? I copy the address into Google maps: four beds, three baths, 3,245 sq ft. Not bad. 

They really should not give us access to this. But it’s all very important information. 

With the last name acquired I move to level two: Instagram. Let’s hope and pray that the account’s public. It’s not. Minor setback. 

Back to Google. No biggie. Here’s a recruiting page from high school. Sheesh, I would not want these stats in the public domain. 

There’s a bio, too. 3.7 GPA (wishful), 6’0 (debatable), mother’s name in black and white. She’s the real key to this puzzle. 

I return to Instagram. Thank God parents don’t know how to make a page private. He’s here. He’s cheesing in a staged family photo. He’s holding a trophy (definitely not from soccer). He’s just lost his first tooth. Adorable. 

Time to move in. Facebook. Every mom’s dedicated shrine to her mediocre children, documented from the very beginning. Thanks Zuck. More scrolling. More snooping. I go deeper. 

I click on a club soccer team profile. A pic of him in shin guards and a bowl cut. Aw. I go to click away and my finger slips. I liked the post and I’m on my personal account (remind me to make a burner). 

I’m caught, and I’ll never be able to speak to him, but hey, he had a nice smile, and these resources demand to be used.