THE other night, after a long family dinner, my 13-year-old niece disappeared into our downstairs closet and soon re-emerged with a box of toys I’d saved from my daughter Chloe’s childhood. Chloe, who is now 31, was surprisingly happy.
“I want that,” she said, reaching for a Furby. “That one too,” she said, looking at a wooden Keith Haring dog that was once part of a red-and-yellow pull toy.
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