I guess I might not show it enough, but I hope Max knows how much I love him too.

On the plane to Miami, I read a book called Cashews by Sylvia Lim that Mr. Sandler assigned us to read over winter break. It’s part of our unit on heroes in literature, but so far the main character, Nathan Almond, seems anything but: He’s a boy with a nut allergy and very bad luck who is forced to work in a nut factory. But I am looking forward to spending time with my favorite heroine, Daisy, when I reread all six Most Likely To … books over break.

When we get to Miami, it is warm and sticky. As we wait in line at the airport rental car agency, I peel off my hoodie and breathe in the familiar air. Lots of my friends go to Florida for winter break, but for me this is more than a vacation. I think of it like one of those friendship lockets that say BEST FRIENDS. Instead of two halves, my locket would be divided into a whole bunch of pieces that say BEST FAMILY, with one of the biggest pieces right here in Miami.

My bubbie meets us at the apartment we always rent in her condo complex. As usual, she greets us with big hugs and a plateful of her sugar cookies.

“Milla, just look at you!” she says, holding my face in her hands. “Almost a bat mitzvah girl.”

“Almost,” I say. While my parents unpack, I look at myself in the hallway mirror, wondering if my bubbie really sees something different in me, or if she is just saying that because she’s my grandmother. I peer closely: To me, I look the same.

After we’ve had a swim, we go to Uncle Dougie and Auntie Jacqui’s house for dinner. My almost-two-year-old twin cousins toddle out stark naked. Auntie Jacqui explains that she’s toilet-training them.

“Say hi to Milla and Max,” she tells them.

“Hi, Mi-ya. Hi, Max,” Ollie says.

“Hi, Mi-ya. Hi, Max,” Oskie says too.

“It’s Mi-LLa,” Max coaches them.

“I don’t mind,” I say, bending down to give them hugs. “Mi-ya can be your special name for me, right, guys?”

“Right, Mi-ya!” they shout together. I laugh and pretend to chase them. Soon Uncle Dougie comes home, and then Uncle Robbie arrives with pizza. We are sitting at the large round patio table in the backyard when Ollie and Oskie toddle over to us together, saying, “Osh it, osh it.” They are holding matching toy dump trucks covered in mud and sand, which they promptly set on the grass—and pee on.

“All clean now,” Oskie says, holding up his truck for us to see.

“All keen,” Ollie agrees, showing us his truck too.

“Oh dear,” my mother says, backing away with a horrified look on her face while Max and I burst out laughing. “Jacqui, you know the parenting experts suggest two and a quarter years old as the optimum time for toilet training. That’s what I did with my kids. Not to step on your toes, but I’m not sure these two are quite ready.”