My husband and I had been planning a trip to visit my sister, Sasha, for months. She lived in a small apartment across the country, and when I told her we were finally coming, she was over the moon. “Tina, I’ve been cleaning for days!” she said excitedly over the phone. “I even turned my office into a guest room!”

When we arrived, the warm welcome felt like coming home. Sasha had gone above and beyond to make us comfortable—fresh flowers, a cozy pull-out couch, and a list of spots she wanted to show us. That first night was magical. We ordered pizza, opened a bottle of wine, and laughed late into the night. Kurt, my husband, had everyone in stitches with his usual antics. For a moment, everything felt perfect.

But the next morning, something shifted. Sasha was stiff and quiet. Her usual brightness was gone, and she barely acknowledged Kurt. I chalked it up to tiredness, but her cold demeanor only worsened throughout the day. She avoided Kurt at every opportunity—leaving the room when he entered, brushing off his offers to help. Something was clearly wrong.

Later, when Kurt declined an outing downtown, Sasha insisted I go with her instead. “Let me show you that art gallery I mentioned,” she said, a little too urgently. We walked among the paintings, but her mind was elsewhere. She kept glancing at her watch, distracted and tense. I asked if everything was alright. She forced a smile and insisted it was.

The next day, she vanished for hours without a word. When she finally returned, she looked drained and on edge. She moved through the kitchen like a ghost and then announced she was going to bed without eating. I tried to make sense of her behavior, but nothing added up.

At 2:17 a.m., I got a text from Sasha: “Can we talk? It’s urgent.” I reached for Kurt beside me, but he wasn’t there. Heart racing, I crept down the hall and found Sasha sitting on her bed with the door slightly ajar, the light soft but her face troubled.

“I love you, Tina. But you and Kurt need to find a hotel tomorrow morning.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s Kurt. I can’t take it anymore. He’s been monopolizing my bathroom. Every day. For hours. I couldn’t even change my pad yesterday morning because he locked himself in for over an hour. I had to go to a gas station just to use the restroom in the afternoon.”

I tried to defend him. “Maybe he’s sick…?”

“For three straight days? Tina, I live here. I work from home. This is my only bathroom.”

I couldn’t argue with that. I promised to speak with him.

The next morning, I confronted Kurt. He shrugged it off. “I’ve just been relaxing. It’s quiet in there. I like to play games on my phone.”

When I pointed out Sasha’s discomfort, he brushed it off again. “She should just tell me. Why drag you into it?”

But something didn’t sit right. And when Kurt walked off to shower, I glanced at his phone, which was still unlocked and lying nearby. There were no games. No apps he usually used to pass time. But nestled among his apps was a dating platform I’d never seen.

I opened it. Message after message from a woman named Mickie. Flirting. Sexting. Plans to meet. “Can’t wait to see you tonight, gorgeous,” one message read. “My wife has no idea.”

Kurt came out of the bathroom just as I held up his phone. “Recognize her?” I asked.

His face went white. “Tina, I can explain.”

“No, you can’t. You’ve been using my sister’s bathroom to sneak around on a dating app. In her house.”

“I never actually met her! I was just chatting. It didn’t mean anything.”

But it meant everything. Sasha appeared in the doorway, having heard the entire exchange. “Pack your things,” I said coldly. “You’re leaving.”

Kurt tried to argue, begged, pleaded. But I didn’t budge. “There’s a motel two miles away,” Sasha added. “Try that bathroom.”

The next morning, while Sasha and I finally shared coffee and laughter again, I got a call from Kurt. “Tina,” he croaked, “Mickie wasn’t real. I went to meet her—him. It was a scam. He robbed me. Took everything.”

I laughed. “Karma’s fast.”

“You have to come get me. Please.”

“We’ll go home,” I said. “But when we get there, your bags will be on the porch. My porch. The one I paid for.”

He was silent.

“Enjoy your freedom, Kurt. Maybe next time, use a public restroom for your nonsense.”

Sasha raised her mug. “To sisters who know when to flush the trash.”

“And to trusting your gut—even when the stink’s coming from the bathroom.”

We laughed, the kind of deep, cathartic laughter that marks the end of a long, painful chapter.

And on the flight home, two rows ahead of Kurt, I didn’t look back once.