On a warm June day in Paris, in a little park adjacent to the Musée de L’Orangerie, I started to cry. There was a little girl nearby, with dark curly hair and white shoes, and a pale pink hat with a wide brim. Her parents sat on a bench watching her as she toddled away into the grass, looking back at them every few moments to make sure they were still there. She was a stark reminder of the little girl I never had a chance to raise, whose chaotic flutters inside my 13-year-old belly were the beginning and end of our communication. Read more >