It is a chilly November evening in Manhattan. After a lengthy subway ride home from work, you decided to grab a quick snack at Épicerie Boulud, a French cafe on the corner of Broadway and West 64th Street. Sitting at a table munching on your éclair, you watch as a gentle snowfall blankets everything outside in a brilliant white. The scent and warm ambience and of the cafe adds to the comfort, making it a perfect escape from the loud, bustling streets. The peace and quiet of the cafe is suddenly interrupted when the front door is forcefully swung open. You see a young woman storm through the entrance, her eyes puffy with tears streaming down her cheeks. You notice her unusual attire - she is wearing a light-pink ballerina outfit, hardly concealed under her winter coat. Her brown hair, slightly wet from the snow, is done up in a bun. Her ballerina shoes are slung over her shoulder as her winter boots stomped on the tile floor. Even more surprising, she is very pregnant. Her leotard is stretched over her large belly, its size exaggerated due to her petite frame. She pulled out a stool and took a seat at an isolated table. "Merde!" she exclaimed, burying her face in her elbow and continued sobbing.