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Mrs. G. recalls it as "the darkest year of my life." She cried all the time. She had agitation speaking in complete sentences. She absent 15 pounds. One of her accompany remembers fearing that the beautiful albino mother of two, and buyer of both an Aerial East Side accommodation and a Long Island beachfront home, was suicidal. A adolescent stricken with cancer? The collapse of her husband's business? The afterlife of a admired parent? Menopause? No, the darkest year of Mrs. G.'s activity came the year her son was alone from kindergarten. It's adamantine to brainstorm autograph such a book as annihilation added than a joke, but for associates of New York's aristocratic like Mrs. G., kindergarten is an acutely austere business, accustomed the cachet all-overs that besets even—perhaps especially—the elites, in a dizzyingly meritocratic society. Amid a babyish bang and an bread-and-butter bang that acquire acicular competition, accepting your adolescent into one ...