"Jeremy's birthday is July eighteenth," she said. "Do the math."
"What math?"
"One more time: He's thirteen years old. He was born on July the eighteenth. I was married on October tenth."
Nothing. For several seconds, he heard the mothers chatting over one another, one baby cry, on barista call out an order to another, and then it happened. A cold gust blew across Myron's heart. Steel bands wrapped around his chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. he opened his mouth but nothing came out. It was like someone had whacked his solar plexus with a baseball bat. Emily watched him and nodded.
"That's right," she said. "He's your son."
Chapter two, page 20

"Several month ago, a friend's death had sent Myron into a tail-spin, causing him to-and we're using complex psychiatric jargon here—wig out. Nothing overly drastic, no nervous breakdown or institutional commitment. He...