Then the rest of the Wines and their guests start trooping in from shul, trailing through the house in their long navy woolen coats and hats and gloves, Shmuel Yosef in a leather motorcycle jacket.

“Gut Yontef!” everyone says, wishing each other a happy holiday.

The newly arrived stamp their feet to get some warmth back into them while we pile our own coats and hats and scarves on. Aunty Steph buttons her heavy knitted sweater coat back up. Naomi Dayan swoops a cape over her shoulders. I look down at the Shabbat winter coat my mother bought last fall. The velvet collar feels babyish.

“Steph, this is Shmuel Yosef,” Honey introduces.

“You’re the photographer,” replies Aunty Steph. “Right on.”

“Shmuel Yosef,” he says, putting out his hand and then (glimpsing Mr. Wine slightly shaking his head) taking it back quickly; he leans forward instead and grins goofily at Aunty Steph.

Aunty Steph smiles.

Everyone crowds out the back door, where the Wines’ wooden succah is erected over the entirety of their large tiled patio. Adorning every inch of wall space is years’ worth of Wine kids’ decorations. Yellow camping lights along with apples, gourds, and colored tinfoil hang from the ceiling—which actually isn’t really a ceiling but bamboo sticks covered with leaves so that you can see the stars. I scan the place cards shaped like etrogs—the citron fruit that is one of the symbols of Succot—for my name; I recognize the handwriting as Honey’s.

I am across from Shmuel Yosef, in between Miriam and Aunty Steph. Honey has placed herself one seat in, between Dan-Dan and Shmuel Yosef. As promised, both on Aunty Steph’s other side and across from her are two random bochers I’ve never seen before. Naomi Dayan and her husband are all the way at the other end of the succah, not close enough to talk to.

“Hey, Milla, catch!” Micah calls after Hamotzi, shooting a challah crumb at me down the table.

I perk up and smile. “Right back at you!” I say, pretending to throw my whole slice of challah at him.

“Ow!” Miriam cries as my elbow accidentally connects with her head.

“Sorry!” I say sheepishly. Micah is silently laughing and pointing from the other end of the table.

“You okay?” Aunty Steph asks me and Miriam. I nod. A smile plays at her lips as she leans over and rubs both our heads. “Two worlds collided …” she sings in her high-pitched voice.

“And they could never tear us apart …” Shmuel Yosef continues in a deep baritone.

“Never tear us apart,” Aunty Steph and Shmuel Yosef repeat, singing together. I raise my eyebrows at Honey, but she’s not looking at me. Her ears have turned red and she’s staring at my aunt and Shmuel Yosef.

We eat steaming bowls of butternut squash soup, plump cabbage rolls, honey mustard brisket, and deep orange sweet potatoes. The smell of the apple crisp in the warming oven wafts through the succah every time the door to the kitchen is opened or closed. Everything is sweet. Except for Honey’s face, which is souring by the minute. Aunty Steph does not seem to find the young men sitting next to or across from her very interesting. But she and Shmuel Yosef have been keeping up a steady stream of animated conversation throughout the meal.