I distinctly remember being in sixth grade—eleven years old—sitting in Ms. Abramowitz’s classroom, working on aworksheet about the water cycle, when the principal’s voice crackled over the intercom. Something about an incident at the World Trade Center. They said that teachers needed to turn on the television.
They wheeled in a TV on one of those rolling carts. We all sat there watching, not really understanding what was happening. And then my mom’s face appeared on the screen.
She was reporting live from the CBS studio, her voice calm and steady, explaining what little they knew. I remember feeling this weird surge of pride—that’s my mom—mixed with fear because why was my mom on TV when something this bad was happening?
And then the second plane hit.
I watched my mom’s composure crack right there on that screen. I watched tears visibly form in her eyes and stream down her cheeks as she cried out, “Oh, dear God! So many people…” Her voice broke. “So many good Americans have just died.”
The classroom went silent.
That moment changed everything for her career. It was the first time the country saw her not as a journalist, but as aperson. A New Yorker. Someone who loved this city and was grieving alongside everyone else.
Her ratings went up after that. She became the face of CBS News for a lot of people. The one who told the truth but also felt it. But for me, it was just the day I watched my mom cry on live television while Lower Manhattan burned to ashes.
New York City was never the same after that day. The world wasn’t. There was a clear before and after. Before 9/11, and after.
We lost so many people that day. Good people. Family friends. Mr. Stavros from my father’s department at Columbia. He’d been in the North Tower for a conference. His wife called our house that evening, hysterical, asking if anyone had heard from him. My parents stayed on the phone with her until 3 AM.
The Marconis from the Italian restaurant on our block. Their son was a firefighter. He went into the South Tower and didn’t come out. They closed the restaurant for a month. When they reopened, they hung his photograph on the wall, right next to the register. It’s still there.
And Sal.
Sal from the pretzel stand near Central Park. He had a thick accent, a handlebar mustache, and was always the first person to smile at you when you walked by. He called mepiccolaand gave me free pretzels my entire childhood. He often told my mother I was “the sweetest bambina” he’d ever met.
He’d been visiting his daughter. She worked on the 95th floor of the South Tower. Neither of them made it out.
I was too young to fully understand it then, but I was old enough to understand that the world had fundamentally changed. That the Twin Towers were gone. That Sal was gone. That nothing would ever be the same in the world from that day forward.
“Earth to Emma.” Phoebe waves her hand in front of my face. “You okay?”
I blink. The kitchen swims back into focus. Michalis is arranging cheese on a platter. Cori is adjusting the crooked banner.
“Yeah.” I shake my head slightly. “Sorry. Just thinking.”
“About?”
“Nothing. Just…Mom. And everything.”
Phoebe loops her arm through mine. Her grip is firm, grounding. “Well, tonight we celebrate her. Twenty-five years of kicking ass and taking names.”
“Twenty-five years of being the smartest person in every room,” Cori adds.
“Twenty-five years of making Dad look like he married up,” Michalis calls from the kitchen with a smirk. We all know he’sjoking—Michalis is a self-proclaimed Mama’s Boy through and through.
Even so, I call back, “He did marry up!”
It’s true. My father is brilliant. He’s a neuroscience professor at Columbia, published author, one of the most respected researchers in his field. He has a mind for details, for systems, for understanding how things work.
But my mother? My mother is a force of nature.
She doesn’t just report stories. She changes them. She’s spent twenty-five years telling truths that people didn’t want to hear, holding power accountable, giving voice to the voiceless. She’s done it while raising three children, while supporting my father’s career, while navigating the endless sexism of an industry that has always tried to reduce women to their appearance and their likeability.
She is the most formidable person I have ever known.
Cori suddenly stops trying to straighten the banner—a losing battle if I’ve ever seen one—and throws both hands up in exasperation. “Oh my god! Who was in charge of all this?”
I look at Phoebe and stick my thumb back toward the kitchen. “That would beyourboyfriend, Phoebs.”
