Aneeta was standing at the mailbox, waiting for her. “Helloooo!” she called out, her voice cheerful, with its slight British accent. Maja couldn’t remember if Aneeta had actually grown up in England, or if she’d just attended boarding school there, or neither. In private, she joked to Ted that the accent was nothing but a put-on, like the waitresses at their neighborhood pasta place that faked Italian accents for better tips.

Maja followed Aneeta into the kitchen, where expanses of pale gray and white marble gleamed beneath matching cherry-red appliances in all the right brands: a shiny KitchenAid stand mixer, a Breville espresso machine. A flat-screen TV built into the wall was silently tuned to HGTV. Aneeta opened the fridge, which was paneled to match the cabinets, a touch that Maja always found both appealing and unsettling: the idea that a refrigerator that probably cost thousands of dollars was somehow gauche and had to be hidden. Aneeta pulled out a bottle of wine and smiled conspiratorially. “It’s practically cocktail hour, right?”

Maja started to refuse, out of habit. She’d basically given up drinking since she’d doubled down on her efforts to get pregnant. She hadn’t really missed these afternoon cocktail hours, which she thought of as the “white wine whine”—women commiserating over minor inconveniences to justify their afternoon wine habit. But today she had her own problem to complain about. “Close enough!” she said, as she accepted the generously sized glass.

To Maja’s surprise, Aneeta took a bag of Cheetos out of the cabinet, poured some into a bowl, and set it between their wineglasses. “Is this why you had kids?” Maja asked.

Aneeta laughed. “I read an article in Saveur that said that the chicest cocktail snacks were the most effortless. They recommended Doritos, but I hate the way they smell. Apparently cheese platters make it look like you’re trying too hard. Cheetos are my simple pleasure.”

Maja had to hand it to Aneeta—she could even justify junk food as a lifestyle choice.

They sat down at the kitchen table, which was cluttered with papers, in contrast to the rest of the almost fanatically clean kitchen. “Sorry about the mess,” Aneeta said, pushing some aside and placing the drinks in front of them.

Only two types of people apologized for their homes being messy, Maja thought. People whose houses really could use a deep clean, and people who were fishing for compliments on how neat and organized they actually were. “Thanks,” Maja said as they clinked glasses. “And your house looks perfect, as always.” And with that, she burst into tears.

Aneeta looked bewildered, and Maja quickly dabbed at her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she sniffed, taking a tissue from the box that Aneeta offered. “It’s the house. It’s a disaster.”