She sighs heavily and begins to stir the sauce again. “As you know, I’ve never really gotten along with my family, and as I’ve grown older, I’ve sort of made peace with it. It’s bizarre being back in touch with Gabriella now, getting to know her kids. At first I thought everything would be great between us. She welcomed me back with open arms, invited me to live with her in the city since she knew I wanted a change. But all this old stuff is coming back up. It’s just not good for the kids to see.”

As if on cue, Lola walks back into the kitchen, trailing a doll. I hear the TV blaring from the master bedroom. “I’m hungry. When’s dinner?”

“When Jordy’s back from his playdate. Just one more episode of your show, okay?” Always obedient, Lola walks back to the TV. Even after spending ample time with this family, I’m still shocked that I haven’t seen more tantrums, more mischief from these children. They’re so docile I’d be suspicious if Annie weren’t so gentle, so sure in the way she handles them.

Once Lola rounds the corner back into the bedroom, Annie turns to me, throwing some chili pepper into the sauce. “She and I were never that close growing up. We’re over ten years apart, and by the time she was born, I’d become so fed up with being the de facto babysitter.” She lets out a laugh. “Now I’m the de facto babysitter to her kids. Go figure.” She goes to the fridge and pulls out sprigs of parsley. “You okay chopping this?”

I nod, carefully pulling out a knife from the wooden rack beside the stove as Anneliese hands me a cutting board. For a small New York City kitchen, Anneliese, and I assume Gabriella as well, have done wonders with the space. It’s the only room with any personal touches and therefore the coziest. Family photos and drawings cover the fridge, held up by SpongeBob magnets, mismatched pots and pans hang from hooks on the wall, spice jars labeled in Anneliese’s handwriting are neatly arrayed in their own separate rack near the fridge, alphabetized, and every surface gleams. Even the tiny windowsill adjacent to the stove is dust-free. A small plant sits there, with tiny shoots. Lola’s name is scrawled in purple chalk on the clay pot.

“Do you think it’ll last? Or do you think she’ll settle back down and be grateful for all the help?” The knife thwacks against the cutting board, and I flinch as my grip loosens around the plastic handle.