When I returned home from the office this afternoon, I was surprised to find my mother and a young man I know in animated conversation. I know his parents from before he was born. His mother and his stepfather—an old friend, as well—live in Oxford, and thus we meet quite often, although not as often as we would wish. He is now in the second year of medical studies at Cambridge, where he is top of his class. His term is finished, and he is back in Oxford for a few weeks. Since a few years ago, my mother and the young man have become close. Every so often they talk on the phone, and they sometimes exchange a few words in writing. His happy-birthday card for my mother’s ninetieth was quite touching. In carefully chosen but warm words, he commended her for her lively intellect, her zest for life, and her love of people. But this was the first time he came to visit her. He simply called earlier today and told her he would like to come over. She was delighted, of course. When I joined them, he was happy to see me, too, but it was clear that she was at the center of his attention. Although my mother is often visited by young women, some from Italy and some from ex-Yugoslavia, and although their boyfriends sometimes love to visit her, too, her visitor today is the first young man who has come to see her on his own. And I am so proud of my mother that I just cannot stop myself from bragging a bit about her lively intellect, her zest for life, and her love of people.