Finally the door buzzes open and I grab at it, then make my way up the stairs to the second-floor apartment. I stop as I hear voices, adult ones, not Anneliese scolding the kids. “You need to get a life, Annie.”

I huddle by the wall, embarrassed, wondering if I should enter. Anneliese’s voice is soft, muffled by the walls, and I’m thankful for that. I’m about to turn around and pretend I was never here at all, when I realize that of course they’ll know I’m standing outside their door, listening to them fight. They buzzed me up.

I’m about to ring the bell when the door is pulled open, the hinges screeching from the force. I find myself staring at a woman, stockily built, with that same red hair. Hers is cut short, her eyes beady little things under overplucked eyebrows. She gazes at me, a beat that feels infinite, like she’s trying to scoop me out, experiment on my innards. “Oh, it’s you.” She moves past me and down the stairs without another word.

I stare back at her retreating frame, my jaw slack. I’ve never met the woman in my life, yet I feel excavated by her, by that piercing glare. I’m irritated that she can make me feel this way.

It’s not until I hear the building door slam shut that I turn back to the apartment entranceway and see Anneliese almost cowering in the door frame. She gestures me in. Behind her knees stands Lola.

With the sun setting, the room is shrouded in an eerie light, shadows playing on the hardwood floor. “Hi, Suzy!” Lola waves her little hand before running to the back of the apartment to play. She seems unfazed by the argument, and I wonder how many similar ones she’s witnessed in her short life. Growing up with only a dad, I was never privy to anything like that.

“Younger sisters. You never had to deal with them, so count yourself lucky,” Anneliese says, watching Lola. But an inflection creeps into her voice, catching me off guard. She sounds almost vulnerable. I follow her to the kitchen, where she’s stirring something. The scent pounces on me, a scrap of memory welling up from the deepest recesses of my mind.

“You made this tomato sauce for me when I was little, didn’t you?” I say, and she nods, her face breaking into a smile.

“My grandmother’s. My mom taught me to make it when I was just Lola’s age.” She hands me the spoon to lick and I do, greedily. She grabs it back and feigns smacking me on the hand before dipping the spoon into the pot and licking it herself. We smile at each other.

“Is everything okay?” I finally ask. An air bubble pops from the saucepan on the stove, splattering the tiniest bit of red sauce onto Anneliese’s green shirt.