Our apartment spans two floors, and we spend most of our family time in a smaller living area that we call the celebration room. Here, we open birthday presents, trim Christmas trees, and announce good news (hence the corny name). But if I had to pick a favorite spot, it would be the dining room. When we were kids, before my brothers left for Groton, I loved our family dinners. Platters were passed back and forth while we reviewed our days. Cassie, please hand me the salt. Cassie, sit up, dear. Cassie, tell us three good things. Nate, Cassie, Billy. Billy, Cassie, Nate. Three Musketeers. Like most kids, I believed my family was the center of the universe, and I felt proud to be included.

I’ve only lived in a few places. However, I am well-traveled, and have come to recognize that a house’s personality reflects the best and worst traits of its owners. I barely remember my birth parents’ home. The Tarrants, an elderly couple, live there now. They have a daughter and son, both older than me. When I was younger and saw the family in passing, I’d imagine that the girl and I were the same person. She was the former me, forced to grow up in a cold, sad mausoleum; and I was the new me, spirited away to a bright, beautiful dreamland. I knew it was childish, but I couldn’t help feeling superior to her. I was the anointed one; I had been chosen. I never did go back to my old apartment; trying to picture it conjures a sweep of loneliness, even all these years later. The foyer had a marble floor, so you stepped off the elevator into a hard, sterile space. There was an art gallery, library, and billiards den, plus six bedrooms and a private guest wing. The rooms, long as tennis courts, were overstuffed with antiques, and yet felt cramped and devoid of life. For all its opulence, the house evoked despair, like a spinster who stocks up on Hummel figurines to hide the absence of love in her life.

The Quinns’ house, by contrast, is an oasis of warmth and light. They have the same mix of formal and informal rooms, but the couches are plush and inviting. Music plays quietly, even in empty rooms. The air smells of cinnamon and freshly baked cookies. They host parties with friends, business associates, and household staff. As a child, I loved being among the crowd, even if I just curled up on a chair and read. Maeve and the nannies hovered nearby, chiding me to eat in hushed voices. I felt blanketed by affection, welcomed by all. The sight, scent, and sound of the Quinns imprinted upon me so completely I was like a baby duckling, drawn back and back and back.