The shower runs in the guest bathroom. We have no guests. A line of cookies traces the hallway to the tub like breadcrumbs in a fairy tale, except the witch is my own family and the gingerbread house is porcelain.

I follow anyway. Every time.

The bathroom door stands open. The shower curtain is drawn. Steam rises. Sounds of water hitting ceramic and my own measured breathing as I approach what I already know to be an elaborate ruse.

I have fallen for this exact scenario many times this year.