Paris is as wet and grey as New York had been, although somehow it feels worse because the eternal grey cloud that always shadows me here hits as soon as we emerge from our plane. Arry holds my hand and doesn’t let go; always there, always holding me up, and back in our apartment, we waste no time doing a walk-through to argue over what we are sending back home.

In the morning, he’s coming with me to school. He called them as soon as we got home and arranged a meeting with the head ...