I missed the interview for my dream job when a strange little girl told me, “Go to your husband’s office.” I went—and heard him with another woman talking about her pregnancy. I almost walked in, but then he said something that shattered everything I thought I knew.

Veronica Hayes crumpled to her knees, the cold, unforgiving tile of Grand Central Terminal’s main concourse a brutal finality against her skin. A sob, raw and ragged, tore from her throat. Around her, the Monday morning rush was a relentless river of humanity, a torrent of hurried footsteps, rumbling suitcases, and clipped conversations. People flowed past her, a blur of motion and indifference. Some cast fleeting, sympathetic glances; others pointedly turned away, their expressions a mask of urban stoicism.