I get my work done early every day, early enough to take the train to Queens and meet up with Anneliese. I ignore an email from my supervisor nudging me to come back into the office. That’s not what’s important anymore. This new family is.

That’s what I call them, in my head, at least. And it feels that way. Lola running to greet me with a hug whenever I’m at the door. Jordan giving me a high-five and going over new video game tactics he picked up from school. Anneliese cooking something on the stove, made fresh every night. It’s like we’re trapped in a Hallmark card with no wish to get out.

Even Gabriella warms up to me, because there are some nights she’s home early to have dinner with the kids, put them to bed. One evening we sit on the roof of their building, dusty and gray with exposed pipes and rubble everywhere, but we’re there, sitting on folded chairs someone left years ago, drinking wine. Anneliese is downstairs, making some kind of dessert for us, decadent and aromatic. Last we saw her, she was whipping cream, her strong thrusts making little peaks in the dairy. She scoffed at me when I offered to run to the corner store and get Reddi-wip.

Despite our surroundings, the sunset is beautiful, all the rose-gold and orange hues you could ask for, stretching like streamers out over the cityscape. I kick off my flip-flops and sigh in contentment. Beside me, Gabriella folds her feet under herself and takes a sip of her wine. She’s quiet around me. Always a little reserved, perhaps even distrustful. But she tolerates my presence more and more now, and I’ve felt that frigidity thaw, if just a little. I take it as a small victory. Topping off my wine, engaging with a comment I make over dinner, complimenting the way I play with her kids. Never with a smile, but it’s something.

This is the first time we’ve been alone, though, without Anneliese as a buffer, and I’m glad for the wine. Glad to have something to do with my hands as I bring the glass to my lips and take a sip.