In the morning, as I open 20 browser tabs of political news, my son, Ben, puts his desk chair on top of his desk so he can stand while working, shoulders back, jaw squared like a sentry.
We borrowed a friend’s place in the country in May to get out of New York City during the apex of the pandemic, when hundreds of New Yorkers were dying every day and refrigerated trucks were serving as mobile morgues outside the hospital where Ben, 14, and his sister, Susannah, 10, were born.
I had not wanted to leave the city. I stayed after 9/11 and after 2008, and staying had become a point of arbitrary pride. But soon after the market crashed, I lost the job I had that tethered me to…
