Tony pushed the button for the elevator, then smoothed his shirt down with the palms of his hands. More nervous than he thought he'd be, he realized for the first time just how much he wanted to get this job. Not for himself—though if he was being honest, he wouldn't mind something a little more distinguished and a little less, well, stinky, than driving a fish truck—but for Samantha. He thought back to last week when she had come home from school with a black eye. She didn't have to tell him that she had been in yet another fight at school. It was only a matter of time before she was in more serious fights or got into other kinds of trouble. This was the right thing to do, he assured himself, even if it meant leaving Brooklyn.

The elevator finally arrived, and Tony entered, quickly consulting a folded-up piece of paper from his back pocket. 4th Floor. Apartment 405. As the doors began to close in front of him, a woman entered the lobby riding a bicycle. Tony caught only a glimpse of her red hair and pink sweatshirt, and heard the ringing of her bell as the doors finished closing completely.

On the way up, he silently rehearsed what he was going to say. "You got this, Micelli," he said aloud to himself as the elevator doors dinged open.

Directly opposite the elevator was Apartment 405. A little plaque underneath the number read "Building Manager". Tony took a deep breath and knocked.

A few hours later, in the van on the way back to Brooklyn, Tony replayed the interview in his mind. He was pretty pleased with how it went. The building's owner, Mr. Bianchi, had been friendly and smiling and he had laughed at Tony's jokes. They were both Italian, and had parents who were first generation immigrants, so they had a lot in common in that respect. Mr. Bianchi had grown up in New York as well, though on Staten Island, so that was another point in Tony's favor. He didn't seem concerned that Tony had never managed a building or been a super before. In fact, Tony thought, he seemed more interested in the fact that Tony talked about cooking and cleaning and taking care of his daughter, and how he was handy, and often helped out his neighbors, like Mrs. Rossini. He had commented on how someone caring and clean and a good neighbor was exactly the kind of person that he would want taking care of his building. He had given Tony a tour of the building, and later a tour of the apartment, which, while not huge, would certainly be an improvement on the little one bedroom that he and Sam currently called home on Pitkin Avenue. All in all, he thought, it had gone well. He reached up and touched the little button pinned to his visor for luck. Now, he just had to wait for the official call.

By the time Tony had found parking for the van and climbed the flights up to Mrs. Rossini's apartment, collected Sam, and they had gotten back to their own apartment, he was exhausted. He quickly whipped up some omelets for dinner while Sam finished her homework. He was just about to call her to the table when the phone rang.

Tony picked up the phone, feeling nervous but excited. "Yeah, hey Mr. Bianchi!" he answered after the caller had identified himself. "Thanks for getting back to me so fast."

"Of course. It didn't take me long to make up my mind. If you're interested, the job is yours. You could move in and start as soon as you'd like."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Bianchi. You don't know how much I appreciate this opportunity. My daughter and I could move as early as this weekend. I'd like her to start in her new school as soon as possible."

They finished their conversation, finalizing a few details about the move and Tony's first day as official manager, and hung up.

Tony felt flooded with relief. He looked around his tiny apartment. Yes, it was home. Brooklyn was home. It was his past, but Connecticut would be Samantha's future. A better school, and a safer place to grow up. He knew though that at eleven, she wasn't going to see this as the wonderful opportunity that he knew it was. She was going to be upset.

"Dinner almost ready, Dad?" Samantha called from her bedroom, interrupting his thoughts.

"Yeah, come on out, honey."

As they sat, Tony took a deep breath. No use waiting, he thought. It won't get any easier—best to just rip off the band-aid and get it over with.

He told Sam all about the job offer, the apartment, and the nearby elementary school. She was less than thrilled, as expected, not wanting to leave Brooklyn and their one-bedroom apartment for another one-bedroom apartment, however larger it might be, in Connecticut. But he talked it up as best as he could, mentioning the basketball hoop he'd spotted in the parking lot, the fitness room in the building, and how new and nice and safe everything seemed.

He talked about the long run and how it would be for her own good, trying to project both confidence and understanding. She complained a bit, and argued a bit, but as they finished up the last of their dinner, tentatively she asked, "There was definitely a basketball hoop?"

"Definitely. It's in the back corner of the parking lot of the building, " Tony confirmed, feeling a tiny seed of hope beginning to take root. Maybe this wouldn't be as hard for her as he had thought.

"And there will be other kids there?"

"I didn't meet any of the tenants, but the building's owner did tell me that several families live there, as well as older people and couples, so I bet there are. You'll make tons of friends, Sam. You'll see. I drove past the school, Fairfield Elementary, on my way back to the highway, and they were having recess. You wouldn't believe the space the kids have to run around at recess! There was a group of kids playing baseball…." He trailed off and looked to her expectantly.

"I guess it'll be okay," she said slowly.

"It's gonna be great. You're gonna love it, Sam. I promise. Fairfield, Connecticut, and our brand-new life, here we come!"