March 2020 in Paris was disturbingly warm, a detail I know not from memory but from the pictures on my phone. There we are on our wedge of a balcony, splayed out on green metal chairs, my husband, Guillaume, squinting into the late-day sunlight with my daughter, Mimi, rosy-cheeked and just shy of her first birthday. A few photos later, there’s Mimi in front of our tall living room windows, her hands as plump as balloon animals and pressed against the glass, gazing outside. There are just a few pictures from quick walks around our tumbleweed-quiet neighborhood, the sky cobalt blue over the buildings with their charcoal mansard roofs.
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