The coffee filters were on the top shelf, but Kayla kept asking Andrew to reach them whenever she crossed our kitchen in a towel. She called it a test, even after I told her to stop. On Sunday, Andrew set down his coffee, unlocked his phone, and showed her why he’d stopped leaving the room that day.

I hadn’t told her to call friends first.

I’d taken one suitcase while Andrew took the other.

“Stay here until you get back on your feet,” I’d told her.

Andrew had agreed before I’d even finished the sentence.

For the first week, Kayla was an easy houseguest.

Then came the towel.

The first morning, I assumed she’d forgotten Andrew was downstairs.

The second time, I pulled her aside.

“Could you put on a robe before coming down? Andrew’s usually in the kitchen.”

Kayla blinked at me.

“He’s your husband, Amanda, not a teenage boy.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“It makes me uncomfortable.”

She studied my face as though I’d presented her with a puzzle.

Then she shrugged.

“Fine.”

Except the next morning, she did it again.

***

Now Andrew was upstairs, and Kayla was stirring sugar into her coffee like nothing had happened.

“I asked you to stop,” I snapped.

She leaned against the counter.

“You don’t have to understand.”