Strictly speaking, I’d seen a girl with chestnut hair pulled back into a ponytail exit the bus. Yet she looked, from behind at least, so strikingly similar to my big sister Joan, that it didn’t occur to me that it might not be her.

This is a story of my son’s conception. I hope he likes it.

I wasn’t always a bad kid. Sure, I was a little anti-social and my penchant for wild bursts of Disco dancing made me a very lonely 3rd grader.

"Oh, please. You're Andy Warhol. Let's have dinner, okay?"

  This is how you find your son who was hitchhiking home for spring break to surprise you and now he calls you because he and two friends are stranded in a deserted place called Pine Island and it’s getting dark.

"Oh, please. You're Andy Warhol. Let's have dinner, okay?"

Growing up I thumbed through the pictures often, trying to understand where their love went wrong. Now I wanted to know what they’d done right.

She dressed all in black, always wearing shitkicker boots with high, thick heels.

Illustrator: Yuliya Kashapova
Black and white: I can’t imagine the life of Vera Frankel, before my birth, with color.