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It was December 12, 1970 when we packed our bags and left.

Leaving behind the apartment wasn’t easy. Memories were made, and now stood confined within those walls.

I’m sorry, my babies.

Walking into the loft, I knew it wasn’t home. The walls were bare, the floors rustic and concrete. The entire loft was filled will darkness, as if the windows let in black light. My first instinct was to paint, but it didn’t seem right. This wasn’t home, and there was no use in modeling it after what home was like. We had to start fresh, paint with colors of the future, not of the past.

Tired from the move in, I got the latest copy of the New York Times along with my favorite novel at the time, Love Story by Erich Segal, and took Georgina and Roger to Central Park. It was the first time I saw my kids laugh in months. Their smiles were not restricted to just their face; it filled their entire bodies with warmth. We had a great day. New York struggled and feared, but continued to live.

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