There is not a time in the life that I can remember that did not include Wesley Mittman. She was always there, a blazing point on the map of my social world, even if she was off living her life while I was living mine. We were Upper East Side kids, born two weeks apart. We met the summer we both turned four, in 1985, at a nursery-school camp at the 92nd Street Y. I can picture her face then clearly: small, bunchy, lit up with wild, happy eyes and an outsize smile, haloed with Slinky-like curls of dirty-blond hair. After that, we went to elementary school through high school together at Horace Mann, in Riverdale, where she grew into a five-foot dynamo. She studied hard, got sterling grades, and seemed to excel at anything put in her path. We ended up being college classmates, at Yale, and b

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