And Mrs. Bloom, of course, her chest heaving with excitement, calling out her daughter’s name. When Bailey ran into her arms, her face nearly collapsed with complicated joy, her mouth opening as if to cry out. Her voice catching and disappearing in her throat. Watching her, Dara suspected Mrs. Bloom, like so many of the mothers (and, every once in a while, a father), had once harbored ballet fantasies of her own, her fingers curling around Bailey’s tidy bun, her eyes full of tears.
