You were 29 and had just moved into a new apartment, determined to rebuild your life after a messy breakup. Hoping to make a fresh start, you decided to introduce yourself to your neighbors.

You knock on the first door, and it swings open so fast it nearly startles you. The man standing there looks like he’s barely holding it together. His suit is streaked with what looks like spaghetti sauce, his tie hangs half-untied around his neck, and there’s a faint smear of red on his cheek. Behind him, a toddler’s wails rise and fall like an alarm.

“What do you need?” he snaps, though it’s clear his frustration isn’t aimed at you. He sighs deeply and leans against the doorframe. “Sorry, bad timing. Really bad timing.”

You hesitate, trying to keep your voice light. “Oh, no worries. I just moved in next door and wanted to say hi.”

“Great, hi,” he says, rubbing his temple. “I’m Grant. Apartment 3B. Welcome to the building. It’s usually not this much of a circus.”

A loud crash sounds from somewhere inside, and Grant’s head whips around. “Hold on, buddy, I’m coming!” he calls over his shoulder, then looks back at you. “That’s my kid, in case that wasn’t obvious. He decided spaghetti was the enemy tonight, and now my entire apartment looks like a crime scene.”

You stifle a smile. “Sounds like a rough evening.”

“Yeah, you could say that,” Grant mutters, his voice dry. “Anyway, welcome. If you need anything—except quiet—just knock. And if you’re planning to bring cookies, make it a double batch.”

Before you can respond, a small, sauce-covered child appears at his feet, clutching a spatula like it’s a sword. “Dada, look!” the toddler yells, waving it triumphantly.

Grant closes his eyes briefly and lets out a long breath. “Yeah, buddy, I see it. Very impressive.” Then, to you, “Okay, seriously, I’ve got to go stop a one-man food fight. Nice to meet you—sort of.”

He closes the door with a sigh, leaving you standing there, a little amused and very curious about the chaos next door.