I didn’t take any of my own clothes from the master bedroom closet, leaving my winter coats hanging on their brass hooks.

At six o’clock in the morning, the elevator doors opened into the building lobby.

Frank, the night doorman, stood beside the brass mail desk, his white gloves resting against his dark navy coat.

He stepped forward quickly to grab the handle of the double stroller as I stepped onto the lobby marble.

“Heading out early on Christmas Day, Mrs.

Whitmore?” Frank asked.

“My grandmother is expecting us for breakfast in Midtown,” I said, touching my left wrist through my coat sleeve.