I stomp toward the Wines’ like my feet are on autopilot, my mom’s voice bouncing around my head.

Milla Ruth, where’s your common sense?

Milla Ruth, just say thank you.

Milla Ruth, don’t give me that face.

This is my face, Mom, take it or leave it!

I tear down the path, my anger fueling my legs until I’ve reached the Wines’ front steps. I leap up them two at a time. I knock.

No one answers.

I knock again, harder, flinching as my bare knuckles meet the heavy door. The empty holes where the knocker used to be mock me.

I bang with my fist, my breath coming ragged.

Still nothing.

They’re probably still sleeping after their late-night seder. Well, that’s fine—I’ll just wake up Honey. I practically live here anyway. They won’t mind if I let myself in. Honey will be happy to see me. They’ll all be happy to see me. Mrs. Wine will make me matzah and butter, and Honey will make me a hot chocolate. We’ll all sit in the kitchen together.

I step forward to punch in the code and catch a glimpse of myself reflected in the shiny gold-colored keypad. In it I am looming, my head widened, my chest heaving. I look like a—well, like a vilde chaya.

I decide to sit on the step and calm down a little.

I press my hot forehead against the cold metal railing and try to inhale and exhale.

I listen to the birds chirping their April song.

I hear a plane droning overhead.

Slowly my heart stops racing.

My legs on the cold cement step begin to numb.

I rub my arms. I am only wearing a T-shirt and my fuzzy pants. The storm from last night has cleared and the sun is shining in a brilliant blue sky, but the Wines’ porch is shaded and the air is still crisp. I have the thought that I am like the Children of Israel who left Egypt in a hurry. I smile to myself when I think that I didn’t even have time to grab some matzah before running out of my house. I stand up, and taking another calming breath, I rap my knuckles on the door one more time.

Still no one answers. As I step forward to press the buttons for the code, I see my warped reflection in the keypad again. I pause, my finger in the air. I know the image is distorted—widened and wobbly—like a fun-house mirror. But I can see that it also tells the truth: I am in my pajamas about to let myself into somebody else’s house.

Everything leaps sharply into focus.

I am not Honey’s sister. Miriam is her sister.

Mrs. Wine is not my mother. My mother is my mother.

I am not a Wine. As much as I feel like part of their family, my name is Milla Bloom.

I step down from the landing of the Wines’ front door and head home.