My doorbell rings, and I answer it with Grace charging behind me on one side and our golden retriever, Lancelot, on the other. Elizabeth waits on the front step, precisely on time, with a binder under one arm. Next to her, Theo stands in a little button-down checkered shirt and khakis. The juxtaposition of his baby-round cheeks and his preppy outfit, missing only a bow tie, slays me. I’m lucky if Grace keeps any outfit on longer than twenty minutes. She’s in her nudist phase. Theo barrels past my legs, and I hear the squeals as he and Grace take off with Lancelot in hot pursuit.

Elizabeth looks exhausted, the only sign that she’s in the first trimester of her second pregnancy. While I love the idea of Grace being a big sister, I don’t think Michael and I are ready to dive in again yet. I say, “Come on in. You’re the first one here.”

She looks like she might apologize, but then she relaxes and quips, “Always.” Elizabeth doesn’t have to be careful and precise with me.

But I don’t lead her into the house, because behind her I see a familiar figure in a peachy hijab approaching my front walk. With a grin, I say, “You’re just barely the first one here.”

Elizabeth turns to see Rahmia and waves. We’re planning another fund raiser, this one a family carnival to benefit the International Women’s Resource Center. I’ve been spending time every week there, doing art projects with the kids and practicing conversational English with their moms. Volunteering is more than atonement, it’s a mission, and I feel so grateful that these women allow me to get to know them. They’re survivors, and sometimes I think I might be one too.

As Rahmia comes up the front walk, I see her glance at the house next to mine, Lena’s house. Or, as she’s noting, Lena’s former house.

I know some people were surprised we didn’t sell our home. Finances aside—and the finances of selling a house so quickly after buying it aren’t trivial, especially with the added burden of legal fees—this is our first home. This is the kitchen where Michael and I learned to cook, the yard where we learned to garden, the home where we conceived Grace and where we’re raising her. We’ve repainted the walls, changed the decor, filled it with things we love. I’ve seen its insides, behind the plaster and beneath the flooring.

People might look askance at this place, but they might look that way at me too. Nothing that happened was this house’s fault. I hope it wasn’t mine either.

Something inside crashes, and Elizabeth blanches and ducks past me, shouting, “Theo!” He’s in a “knocking over lamps” phase, but it upsets his mom more than it does me.