The winter wind howling off the Hudson River felt less like weather and more like a physical assault. It was the kind of brutal, blinding blizzard that paralyzes Manhattan, turning the avenues into frozen, unforgiving canyons. I pulled the collar of my worn, camel-hair coat tighter around my neck, using my body to shield my six-year-old daughter, Sophia, from the biting ice. She clung to my hand, her small fingers encased in damp woolen mittens, while her other hand carefully guarded a fragile treasure: a paper necklace she had spent the entire afternoon meticulously coloring for her father’s big promotion night.