“You’re up! Let me pour you some coffee from the machine Naima got us for our 30^th anniversary,” Mrs. Almonte, Naima’s mother, says with a thick Haitian accent when I walk into the kitchen of the family’s Queens duplex the next morning. The Alexa device quietly going over today’s headlines is soon drowned out by the talking push button coffee machine as it grinds beans to produce a single serving of quality coffee.

I hear the scoot of a chair underneath it all, and then Naima’s in front of me, saying, “Hey girl, table’s over here.”

I have my stick, but let her guide me to a table that is clear of clutter or any of the other knick-knacks you might find in a fully-sighted family’s kitchen. From what Naima told me when she showed me to the couch last night, the Almontes live in a very humble home. But it doesn’t feel that way to me. It’s refreshing to visit someplace other than my apartment with completely clear pathways everywhere I walk. Naima even removed the kitchen door for her parents, so all I had to do was walk right in when I woke up this morning.

Naima still lives with her parents. She says it’s because it doesn’t make sense to pay someone’s landlord thousands to pile into an apartment with a bunch of roommates. But I suspect she doesn’t want to leave her parents alone in the house, even though from what I can sense, they’d get along perfectly well on their own.

Naima’s Dominican father, Mr. Almonte, is already at the table.

“Hola, mami, let me lean that stick against the table for you,” he says, taking my mobility cane from me. “It is good to have you here in my home.”

I get the feeling Naima’s already filled her parents in on how her hysterical friend insisted on spending the night at their place because she was so overcome with embarrassment.

As if to confirm my suspicion, Mr. Almonte says, “You know I was very idiot man this winter. Went out without my stick. Slipped on the ice in front of the whole neighborhood. Could hear the kids laughing as the women sent for an ambulance. Broke my leg in two places. Now they have me on this PT. Really, you have no reason to be embarrassed in front of that rich boy.”

“And if that rich boy’s serious about living with you outside the scripture, then he should at least become educated about how we be,” Mrs. Almonte adds, setting a coffee in front of me with a soft ceramic tap.

The coffee from the Almonte’s machine is infinitely better than the stuff that comes out of my Keurig, but I can barely enjoy it because I’m wondering what I’m going to do. Obviously, my plan to take the New York Bar is done for. I’m going to have to contact WITSEC and figure out how to get another identity. Then probably move. But how hard would it be to find a blind black lawyer in this country? And how much help would I be to people if I didn’t officially register as a lawyer for the blind?

My life is a pile of ashes now, all because I finally let myself get serious with someone. Falling in love didn’t just hurt me as I suspected it would. It’s ruined my life.

Again.

Bella… Amber… a wave of depression washes over me as I realize I’ve gone through two lives in less than 25 years.

The doorbell rings and Mrs. Almonte says, “Alexa what time is it?”

“8:28 A.M.” Alexa answers.

“Your therapist is 30 minutes early. You having an affair, old man?” Mrs. Almonte asks, her voice laced through with French suspicion.

“Sure am,” Mr. Almonte answers. “She is working me out. Gives me all the things an old woman like you can’t.”

“Things like what? The STDs?” Mrs. Almonte shoots back.

“Mom! Dad! It’s too early for this routine of yours,” Naima says. She sounds weary. “Plus, we’ve got a guest.”

“Then tell your padre to stop flirting with all these scandalous women that come by the house!” her mother answers.

“Tell your mère to stop hating on my game! Is it my fault I am such the smooth player?” Mr. Almonte answers, sounding like a put-upon saint.

The doorbell rings again.

“Mom, are you getting the door or am I?” Naima asks.

“I will get this door,” her mother answers. “Abraham di sètase. It is time to let this girl know about herself!”

“I’m so sorry,” Naima says to me with an exasperated laugh. “My parents have no chill switch when it comes to acting a fool.”

“It’s fine,” I assure her, laughing too.

But our laughter comes to an abrupt stop when Mrs. Almonte yells back to us. “Naima! There is a man here who says he has your jacket.”