Perhaps, like a hovering mother with a 42-year-old, twice-divorced offspring, I knew that my baby will always be my baby but he had to leave the nest sometime, and I had to be brave enough to let him go. And if the world (read: agents, publishers) rejects or accepts him (the book, I mean, just to be clear), I will always be there to say, “Here is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the edges trimmed, now comb your hair and tuck in your shirt”