Epilogue
One Week Later
I’m holding the hand of a girl I
love.
Only this girl isn’t the wife of
some jealous husband. She’s my eight-year-old daughter. This morning I have the
distinct pleasure of accompanying her on her walk to school, which isn’t far
from where she lives with her mother and stepfather on Gramercy Park.
She’s tall for her age. She wears
her brunette hair long like her mother and is very neat and fastidious about
her very feminine appearance. “This is New York City after all,” the ever-precocious
second grader will often remind me.
She’s also inherited her mother’s
deep-set brown eyes that used to make my heart skip a beat when I looked
directly into them. Last, but not at all least, she’s inherited her mother’s
gift for gab.
“Daddy,” she says, as we turn t
