When she heard the doorbell the first time, Rosie ignored it. The kids had never had a doorbell and spent most of the morning trying this one out until she was completely inured to its chimes. When it rang again an hour later, she was in the turret unpacking Poppy’s room and assumed someone else would get it. No one did. When Rosie finally went downstairs to investigate the third ring, she found she had the house to herself, an occasion rare enough she was irritated to have it interrupted.

She pulled open the door to a perfectly pleasant-looking couple about her age. “We don’t want any.” Her father’s joke when friends came to visit, though these two were strangers and she wasn’t actually kidding.

“Oh. Uh,” the female half fumbled, looked at the male half who smiled gamely, first at his wife, then at Rosie, then back again, “we wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

“Ah.” Rosie squinted at them. Mystery solved. “Thanks.”

“We brought cookies.” The male half raised and wiggled a plastic-wrap-covered plate to prove it. “But full disclosure: they do contain peanut butter. Oh, and raisins.” Rosie thought peanut-butter-raisin cookies were an odd combination. Rosie thought it unfair that even moving across the country wasn’t far enough to escape people’s obsession with peanut allergies. Then the man added, “And wine.” She thought he meant in the cookies until he produced a bottle from behind his back like a magic trick, but in the beat it took Rosie to reach for it, he put it back again. “Although if you’re allergic to raisins, you’re probably allergic to wine too, right? Not that it’s raisin wine, of course. Is that even a thing? Raisin wine? Or maybe you don’t drink? We don’t mean to presume. Maybe you aren’t drinkers. Or cookie eaters. Not that we drink that much, but it is nice to have a glass of wine with dinner. If you drink. If it’s good wine. Not that this is really good wine. A colleague brought it over for dinner the other night, and we never quite got there. Not that it’s crappy either. Just, you know, leftover.” Then he was quiet, which was probably for the best. They both looked at Rosie. It was her turn now apparently.

“I’m not allergic to raisins,” she said.

“That’s a relief.” The man nodded approvingly.

“I’m Rosie,” she added, and they lit up with relieved joy because it had never occurred to them to actually introduce themselves.

“Oh, we’re Marginny and Frank Granderson,” the woman gushed, like the fact that they all three of them had names was too big a coincidence to be believed.

“Marjorie?” Rosie must have misheard.

“Marginny.” Marginny shrugged smugly, like this was a reasonable name, something to be proud of even, as if she’d had anything to do with it. (Which, who knew, she might have.) “My dad really loved gin. And my mom.”

“Not that we’re big drinkers,” Frank reminded her.

“We’re so pleased to meet you finally.” Had they been waiting?

“Likewise,” Rosie said, and when no one had anything to add, sighed with relief, “Thanks for the welcome and the treats,” and started to close the door.

Marginny and Frank leaned in together to peer behind her. “You solo?” Frank asked. “Awfully big van for one.”

Rosie felt spied on already. “I don’t know where they all got off to”—she waved vaguely behind her without looking—“but they’re not allergic to raisins either.”

“All?” Marginny inquired brightly.

“Penn, my husband. And five kids.”

They clasped their hands to their chests simultaneously. “Five?” Frank grinned. “Wow. I bet you’re from the Midwest.”

Rosie hated to admit this was true, but she could not relocate Wisconsin.

“We have two ourselves,” Marginny confided. “Girls. Cayenne’s just about to start eighth grade. Aggie’s going into first.”

Cayenne, Aggie, and Marginny? Did they make these names up? How was she ever going to remember them?

“And yours?” Frank prompted.

“Five boys,” Rosie said automatically, then checked herself. “Well, four and a half.”

“You’re pregnant?” Marginny guessed.

“God forbid.” Rosie tried to stuff some of her sweaty hair back into her sweaty ponytail. “Roo and Ben are going into eighth grade too. Orion and Rigel are going into sixth. Poppy’s our youngest. He’ll be starting first grade.”

“You said…” Marginny looked confused.

Rosie blushed deeply and hoped it looked like she was just flushed from unpacking boxes. “Poppy, uh…” It was at that instant, and not an instant before, that Rosie realized they’d needed a plan for this moment. In Madison, for better and for worse, everyone knew, so there was no need to tell. These people standing on her front porch had been in her life for all of six awkward minutes, and so far she wasn’t terribly fond of them. Telling them about Poppy and Claude, all the heartache and confusion and sorting and decision making, all the hoping and leaping, was too intimate by half. She supposed she couldn’t introduce her nascent daughter with, “This is Poppy. She has a penis,” but clearly they needed some way in. In the moment, Rosie finally settled on, “Poppy used to be a boy.”