I’m sitting here in this drafty apartment in the West Village, paying four thousand a month for the privilege of hearing my neighbor’s plumbing, and I saw a woman at the market today—she couldn't have been more than thirty-eight—standing there clutching a head of organic broccoli like it was a holy relic and it just BROKE something open in me because I remember that specific brand of madness so clearly, I remember being that late-stage new mother in 1987 and being absolutely paralyzed by the thought that a single non-organic blueberry would somehow derail my son’s entire future, I was so convinced that his cognitive development was a math equation I could solve if I just did enough research in the medical library.