“Okay. I’ll see you soon, kiddo. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I hang up and push open the front door, which is unlocked because even though my parents have lived in Brooklyn for two decades, they still act like we’re in some idyllic Greek village where everyone knows everyone and crime is just a vague concept.
The house smells like home immediately. Lemon cake baking in the oven—Mom’s nervous baking tells me she’s been stressed lately. Lavender from the candles she burns constantly. Coffee from the espresso machine that’s basically the sixth member of the family.
I step into the entryway and just stand there for a second, taking it in.
They bought it when I was six, right after they got married. Mom had just gotten her first big promotion at CBS, and Dad had finally gotten tenure. It was this massive, terrifying purchase—a three-story brownstone that needed a lot of work.I remember walking through it that first time, Mom pointing out all the potential, Dad calculating costs in his head, me just thrilled that I was still going to have my own room.
The living room is to my left. There’s an exposed brick wall, a deep green couch that’s been reupholstered twice, built-in bookshelves crammed with everything from Dad’s neuroscience journals to Mom’s true crime obsession to my high school yearbooks. There’s a fireplace that we actually use in the winter, gathering around it like we’re in some Nancy Meyers movie. The kitchen archway frames the farmhouse table where we ate dinner every single night—Mom at one end, Dad at the other, the three of us scattered between them. Even when Mom was too tired to talk. Even when Allie was crying into her broccoli. Even when Michalis and I weren’t speaking to each other over some transgression neither of us could remember by morning. We were there, and we were together. Family dinners were something Mom was insistent on growing up, and they became impossible to get out of no matter how hard we tried.
The staircase curves upward, its banister worn smooth by twenty years of small hands sliding along it. I used to sit on the fourth step from the bottom, the one that didn’t creak, and eavesdrop on the grown-up conversations drifting up from the living room. I thought I was invisible. I thought they couldn’t hear my breath catching when something scandalous was revealed, but they always could. They just let me have my illusions.
There are photographs on every surface, every wall, every available inch of horizontal and vertical space, claimed and colonized by memory.
Me at seven, gap-toothed and sunburned, holding up a fish I’d caught on a trip to the Cape, my expression equal parts pride and terror. Michalis at two, round as a dumpling, covered in birthday cake frosting, his chubby fist raised in triumph. Alliein eighth grade, dressed as Maria fromThe Sound of Music, her face painted with stage makeup, beaming at a future she couldn’t yet imagine. The four of us on the dock in Mykonos, squinting into the sun, Mom’s arm around my shoulders, Dad’s hand on Michalis’s head. And the wedding photo, always the wedding photo: Mom and Dad under the chuppah, their faces young and serious, Mom heavily pregnant with Michalis at that point and me between them—six years old in a purple velvet dress, clutching a bouquet of baby’s breath with the biggest grin I’ve probably ever had.
Before I can sink too deep into the undertow of memory, I hear footsteps—heavy, rapid, unmistakable—and then I’m airborne.
“EM!”
Michalis has me in a full embrace, my feet dangling six inches above the floor, his arms locked around my ribcage with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who hasn’t yet realized he’s fully grown. He’s six feet and five inches of lanky limbs and too much energy, compressed into the body of a twenty-year-old man.
“Put me down, you giant!”
He grins and obeys, setting me gently back onto solid ground. His hands remain on my shoulders, steadying me unnecessarily. “You’re so small. When did you get so small?”
“I’ve always been five-six. You’re just freakishly tall.”
Michalis is twenty now, home for the summer from NYU. He’s a perfect mix of Mom and Dad—thick brown curls like Dad, hazel eyes like Mom, a strong bone structure and cleft chin that makes every single one of my friends ask if he’s single.
I look around at the decorations in the living room and can immediately tell that a man did this.
There are balloons.Somany balloons. Like, an obscene number of balloons. They’re clustered in the corners in theseweird, lumpy bunches instead of being spread out evenly and I’m pretty sure some of them say “Happy Birthday.” The banner that says “CONGRATULATIONS ANNIE” is crooked—one end is sagging, held up by what appears to be masking tape.
And my god, the flowers are a hot mess. There are three arrangements on the mantel—one tall, one medium, one short—and they’re all completely different styles. One looks like it came from a fancy florist. One looks like it came from Trader Joe’s. And one looks like someone just grabbed a bunch of deli flowers and shoved them in a vase.
I turn to Michalis, who’s now conveniently avoiding eye contact. “Did you do this?”
He crosses his arms. “What do you mean by‘this’?”
I gesture broadly at the entire room. “The decorations.”
“I did the best I could!”
I walk over to the mantel and pick up the deli flowers. “Where did these come from?”
“The bodega on Seventh.”
“And these?” I point to the fancy arrangement.
“I ordered those online.”
“And these?” I hold up the Trader Joe’s bouquet.
“Trader Joe’s.”
