In September 2001, I was 37 and married with two children—both girls, a six-year-old and a two-year-old. We lived at parks, swimming pools, and, when it was too hot, the kids section of the Barnes and Noble. I was busy creating a grand life for some lucky kids who were going to get the childhood they deserved (I hope you hear some absurdity here). The morning of 9/11, I had just returned from dropping off the children at school and was stepping out of the shower when I saw that the first WTC had a substantial hole in it. By 10…