Here in the heart of Washington, D.C., often considered a city of people passing through, I met a family of four female generations under the same roof. That was a heartwarming New Year’s gift.

My large apartment building, a Roaring ’20s number with a fountain in front, sometimes seems like it danced out of the Jazz Age, in F. Scott Fitzgerald style. Made for urbane city life.

But this tale is a different take on being at home in our capital city in a refreshingly old-fashioned way.

“We are each other’s hearts,” Anne Taylor explains. Second in the line of four, she lives with her mother Isabel (“Mummy”). Little Sofia, her 2-month-old granddaughter, is the youngest. The family dwells in two apartments, separated by a few floors, on the other end of the building.

The story begins when a fetching young woman from Portugal, Isabel, meets an American man, David Taylor Jr., at a Lisbon cocktail party. He’s 11 years older, but that was no problem for their engagement and wedding in that beautiful city in April 1960.

The wedding was a prelude to life in various countries, where David worked as an executive at Mobil. They raised their two daughters in Nigeria, Portugal, France, Indonesia, New York and Washington.

“Every place felt like home,” Isabel says in her living room, full of art and Christmas cheer. Their first post, “Tunisia was heaven.”

In a bright, smiling voice, Isabel shows pictures with her late husband, who died 10 years ago. They moved into this building in 1979, she says, a place she cherishes for the sun patio, party room, and solariums in each apartment.

More than that, she says, “I love the staff, the neighbors, the neighborhood.” Near a library, the Zoo and some woods with walking trails, the city neighborhood has its charms.

Over time, Isabel — or Mrs. Taylor — became a senior, maternal figure for residents of the building. Knowing everybody, she collects for the Christmas fund every year to give the building employees a bonus.

When Isabel didn’t recognize me, a newcomer, in the lobby, she quickly fixed that and identified my floor and unit. Later, at the holiday party, she gave me a kiss on the cheek, and I felt I really belonged.

During our interview, her daughter Anne offered me a cup of Nutcracker tea as I settled into the sofa.

After a long period of living in Portugal in horse country, with four daughters, Anne felt a tug toward this beloved place full of memory — and her mother.

Post-pandemic, with a divorce behind her, it was time for a change. For Anne, it was change toward the known. She returned to buy a place in the building.

The unusual family arrangement unfolded like pages in a book.

Anne’s daughter Joana and her Turkish husband are parents to a 3-year-old boy, Joaquim, and infant Sofia. They moved into one of the two apartments.

“They needed a bit of support, because child care in America is very expensive,” Anne says.

(Child care is a pressing issue for Senate Democrats.)

“It’s really nice to go downstairs,” to see the younger ones, Anne adds. “It’s a blessing to spend time with my grandchildren.”

Cradling Sofia, Joana describes living in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and its breathtaking beauty. A great place to spend your 20s, to ski, ride horses, fall in love and marry, as she did.

Isabel herself went riding there on a visit, when she was 82.

For Joana, a young mother, the village-like support here is healthy all around. Her son Joaquim, or Jack, speaks three languages: Turkish, Portuguese and English, she notes.

The family’s love of seeing the world became clear long before I finished my tea. Yet here they were, nestled together, as if the Old World still lived among us.

How many American families have the comfort and joy of seeing their youngest and oldest members day by day? We prize mobility but pay a price in lonesomeness along the way. I ask because I live 3,000 miles from my immediate family in California.

Says Anne: “Everyone spreads their wings and then they come back.”

The author may be reached at JamieStiehm.com.

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