“A test of what?”
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“Andrew.”
Apparently, my sister had decided that if my husband could be tempted by another woman walking around half-dressed, I deserved to know.
I told her she wasn’t testing my husband.
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She was disrespecting me.
She laughed.
Then, on Sunday morning, Kayla came downstairs in that towel again and asked Andrew to reach the coffee filters from the top shelf.
Instead, my husband calmly put down his coffee.
Unlocked his phone.
And said:
“Congratulations, Kayla. You passed.”
Her smile disappeared.
Two weeks earlier, Kayla had arrived at our front door carrying two suitcases, $287 in her checking account, and six years of heartbreak.
Her boyfriend, Eric, had ended their relationship and told her to leave the apartment they’d shared.
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I didn’t ask whether she could afford a hotel.
I didn’t tell her to call friends.
I simply grabbed one suitcase.
Andrew took the other.
