Silvia is a thirty-something Orthodox Jewish married woman and mother of two daughters, Nechama and Michelle. Her husband, Martin, works for his well-heeled uncle’s shirtwaist dress factory. They live in the brick apartment building south of Canal Street, in Lower New York City, where she grew up, two flights down, or with her aunt, five flights up. There was an elevator. Eventually. Her two daughters attend yeshiva nearby, so they can set their alarm clock, prepare their own lunch, and walk. Marty also works nearby in the opposite direction. He walks into the sun. I don’t understand.

Marty wants to move to a place called “Suburbs.” That’s all he talks about. He wants to buy a car. He can’t even drive. A red car.

But every important thing that ever mattered to Silvia happened there, somewhere in the building. It held her memories and her secrets. Even Marty’s uncle lived in the building before he became a millionaire. Then he moved out from the big apartment on four, and his daughter moved in. She still lives there.