One day, I got caught in a downpour in NYC while traveling on business. I jumped under the eaves of the building next to me and leaned back to avoid the rain.

I brushed up against a door, and bells jingled, and someone waved me in, a psychic. I hadn’t realized where I was. She asked if I’d like a reading while I waited out the rain.

She knew I wanted to know about kids. My husband and I were going through some tough stuff early in our marriage, and I wondered if we would get there.

She said she twins and then another in short order for us. The rain cleared.

I left to meet my colleagues at one of those fancy unmarked restaurants that on the outside looks like nothing, and the inside is quite grand. I can’t remember if I told them about the psychic.

All these years later, we have our three babies, twins and little sister, three children in less than three years.

A couple of times, on other trips, I looked for the psychic and that restaurant to no avail. I had no idea what street I was on or even the neighborhood that day.

I could probably find out with a little due diligence, but I’m content with it as it was. It was a little like that movie, Midnight in Paris, part surreal memory, part magic. She gave me comfort and hope.