September 11, 2001, I was doing what all young mothers do.
Separating from my child for the very first time.
Not that we were never apart. Hell, I was a working mom, so there were plenty of times when I saw my son for only minutes a day, as I often left before he was up and got home shortly before his bedtime.
But this was different. This time he was leaving the nest for his first day of preschool. He was only two and a half, but with a six-month-old baby at home and us considering a cross-country move, I needed a few waking hours to deal.
Dropping him off at his brand new preschool was the hardest thing I’d ever done.
Or so I thought.
As I left his school, a man stopped me and said, “I just heard the craziest thing. A plane flew into the World Trade Center.”
Before I could respond, he added, “Wait, what did I just say to you?” The man looked sincerely befuddled, with the same expression on his face as you have when you wake up from a nightmare.
I repeated the horrible thing he said, and he replied, “No, not one plane. Two planes.”