I didn't want to hurt her.

But I also couldn't keep pretending that her behavior was harmless.

“No, Kayla,” I said quietly. “We're not against you. We want you to get back on your feet. But helping you doesn't mean I have to accept being disrespected.”

She shook her head.

“You're acting like I tried to steal your husband.”

“I didn't say that,” I replied. “You called it a test. You repeatedly did something after I asked you to stop, and then you blamed me for being uncomfortable. That's the problem.”

Andrew remained silent, allowing me to speak for myself.

For a few seconds, the only sound in the kitchen was the coffee machine.

Then Kayla dropped the paper onto the table.

“Fine. I get it.”

She turned and hurried upstairs.

I expected her to slam the bedroom door, but she didn't. Instead, I heard drawers opening and closing.

Andrew looked at me.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded, although my hands were trembling.

“I think so. I just can't believe it came to this.”

“Neither can I,” he said. “But we can't help someone by allowing them to hurt us.”

Later that afternoon, Kayla came downstairs fully dressed. She sat across from me in the living room, twisting a tissue between her fingers.

“I owe you an apology,” she said.

I waited.

She admitted that her breakup had left her feeling rejected and powerless. She'd spent six years believing her boyfriend would eventually marry her, only to find herself suddenly alone and uncertain about everything.

“I wanted to feel like I still had something,” she whispered. “I don't even know why I started doing it. At first, I thought it was funny. Then, when you got upset, I felt like I had to prove I could.”

“By making me feel worse?” I asked.

She looked down.

“I know. It was cruel.”

I couldn't erase what had happened simply because she'd finally acknowledged it. But I could hear that, for the first time, she was beginning to understand why it had hurt.