“When we get back to the apartment, I beg Matt to put on some enormous pink pajamas with daisies all over them that my stepmother sent me for Hanukkah: “Come on—I’ve been through so much!” Eventually he gets into them, and then does the hora around my coffee table for a while. I feel less alone than I have in months. For some reason, I still have Matt. I still have Emma. I still have New York, and I am still a writer. And the truth is, the ten or twenty minutes I was somebody’s mother were black magic. There is nothing I would trade them for. There is no place I would rather have seen.”