“Is everything going to be all right?” my husband, Paul, asks as we climb into bed and turn out the light. This is an old bedtime ritual of ours, and it used to be I had all the answers. I used to say: “Everything is all right. Everything’s fine.” And if he was particularly anxious (who wouldn’t be anxious, bearing responsibility for all the monuments in all the parks in New York City?) I was always ready with more: “We have two wonderful, funny boys, and we live in a good building in the West Village, the best neighborhood in the world. We can afford to go to the movies as often as we like. We love our work, even if some days the bastards get you down.”