On my 40th birthday, I thought to myself, “Maybe life really does begin at forty!” I was on top of the world: after 20 years of writing (resulting in five unpublished novels), my first book was finally about to be published; I loved my job, and my career was heading off in new and exciting directions; I had good health, a strong marriage, and wonderful friends. But all of that paled in comparison to the greatest joy in my life: my beautiful baby boy, Max, who was then eleven months old.