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“No, thank you,” the child mumbled.

“Well, maybe you guys can have something later on,” offered Karen.

“Can I see the Barbies?” asked Mia.

“Say ‘please,’” said Michelle, turning from Mia to Karen. “Sorry, my daughter has the worst manners.”

“Oh, she’s fine,” said Karen, waving the suggestion away.

“Can I please see the Barbies?” said Mia.

“Of course!” said Karen, suddenly regretting her accommodation of Ruby’s insistence that all her Barbie dolls have blond hair. For Christmas the year before, Karen had bought her City Shopper Barbie, who was a brunette, but Ruby had promptly cut all her hair off with Matt’s toenail clippers, giving the doll the appearance of an impossibly sexy chemo patient. “Ruby!” Karen called into the other room. “What are you doing? Your friend is here, waiting for you.”

Just then, Ruby appeared—in a rainbow-striped wig, feather boa, and leotard, her convex tummy stretching the nylon fabric to its limits. “Surprise!” she yelled while striking a showgirl pose, one leg in front of the other and hands on her nonexistent hips.

“Hi, Ruby,” Mia said, giggling.

“Sweetie—can we tone it down a tiny bit?” said Karen, embarrassed both by Ruby’s pose and by the fact of her daughter’s distended stomach. Karen feared that Michelle would think she was one of those rich, laissez-faire parents who never disciplined their children, mistakenly believing that they needed to express themselves, even when they were acting like entitled little brats.

“But I’m a celebrity,” Ruby explained.

“Funny,” said Karen, “because last time I checked, you were a third-grader.” Undaunted, Ruby began to gyrate. Desperate to interrupt the proceedings, Karen took hold of Ruby’s arm mid-swivel and said, “Mia really wants to see your Barbies. Can you take her to your room and show her? Now?”

“Come with me,” said Ruby, grabbing Mia’s wrist and yanking her away—summoning in Karen both relief and a new cause for alarm: What if Michelle thought Ruby was bossing her daughter around?

“Ruby reminds me of me at that age,” announced Michelle.

“You mean bossy and a huge pain in the butt?” said Karen. “I don’t believe it.”

“Oh, stop,” said Michelle, laughing. “Your daughter’s got character!”

“That’s very sweet,” said Karen, who found herself feeling unexpectedly warm toward her visitor. After the girls vanished, she turned to Michelle, let out a heavy sigh meant to allude to the exhausting job known as motherhood, and said, “Maybe this is crazy, but how about a glass of something? I know it’s early in the afternoon. But I’m ready if you are.”

“Why not?” said Michelle. “To be honest, I could use one.”

“I could always use one.”

Michelle grinned back at her and said, “That makes two of us,” further pleasing Karen, who hoped to be perceived by her guest as sophisticated—after all, she was easily fifteen years Michelle’s senior—without being superior.

As Karen took two wineglasses down from the shelf and emptied a recently opened bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc into them, the women commiserated about how ridiculously cold it still was outside. Then Karen pulled up a stool across from Michelle, who was already seated at Karen’s butcher-block kitchen island, and said, “So, what’s new in your life?”

“Seriously?” said Michelle, one eyebrow lifted as she raised her glass to her lips.

“Seriously,” said Karen.

“My husband, Benny, Mia, and me? We’re fine,” said Michelle. “But can I tell you”—she extended her neck forward—“Benny’s ex, Gisela? She’s literally killing me right now. Like, she and my stepdaughter, Juliana, just got evicted again.”

“Oh my God, are you serious?” said Karen, amazed at how forthcoming Michelle was being—it was almost as if she’d forgotten that she and Karen didn’t actually know each other—but also flattered to be entrusted with such personal information and happy for the distraction from her own problems. In truth, it alarmed and excited her to think that her daughter was only two degrees of separation away from the kind of people who got evicted.

“Totally serious,” said Michelle.

“What a nightmare,” said Karen. “So where are they living now?”

“Probably someone’s floor. Or a shelter. I don’t even ask anymore!”

“That’s terrible,” said Karen, shaking her head.

“I just feel bad for my stepdaughter, Juliana,” Michelle continued. “She’s, like, a sweet kid. But when she comes over to our house, she cries when it’s time to leave ’cause Mia’s got all these games to play with and her own room and stuff. And Juliana’s got, like, nothing.” She shrugged.

“Who can blame her?” said Karen, shrugging herself.

“But what can I do?” said Michelle. “I don’t have room for her. And I sure as hell don’t have room for Gisela.”

“Well, she can’t really expect you to put them all up.”

“I don’t know what she expects. But seriously, Karen?” Michelle pulled her stool in even closer. “Benny and I worked to get where we are. Like, we worked our butts off. So did my mami and papi—they always paid the rent on time. But Benny’s papi left his mami when she was eight months pregnant with Benny. Then he got AIDS and, like, died on the street, but that’s a whole other story.”