It’s Wednesday morning, 8am. The shoes that have lined the hallway for the past 4 days are making their way back home. To their father’s house. Since last July, they’ve been with me Sundays thru Wednesdays, and the alternating Saturday night.

Over Christmas, my eldest hosted her annual Hanukkah party for her friends. A diverse group of American kids whose parents were born in China, India, Pakistan, Maryland, Afghanistan, Poland, Iran. When they arrive, for latkes and matzo ball soup, they bring with them Biryani, Curries, Pierogies. What I enjoy, nearly as much as the delicious food, is the giant pile of shoes by the front door. Dozens of shoes from these kids, who’ve brought so many colors and flavors from their home into ours. The pile means they’re here for awhile, to get comfortable, to feel at home.

Back at the apartment, when the girls stay with me, my quiet, solo existence gets turned on its head. The uncluttered coffee table becomes covered in papers, pens, dishes, puzzles, cds, laptops. There’s music and song and hot chocolate and “Party of Five” on Netflix. I look up, along the entry way wall, and see them: Granny boots, black suede booties, running shoes, Uggs. Confirmation that the girls live here, too.

After 5 months, we’ve got the routine down. Everyone is feeling their own space, breath. It’s good. It’s just those damned shoes that get to me. Or, rather, the absence of them. On Wednesdays.