I’ve never been very good at sharing. Growing up an only child, I didn’t really have to be. I actually have three sisters whom I adore—but technically, they’re half-sisters, from my father’s previous and subsequent marriages. There’s a big age difference between all of us—we range from 50 to 21—and we’ve never lived together. So for all intents and purposes, I grew up an only child, never truly having to share. My older sisters weren’t exactly clamoring to get their hands on my Smurf collection, and by the time my younger sister was old enough to care about Smurfs, Smurfs were painfully passé. Sure, I had lots of friends and play-dates, but it’s easy to be magnanimous when you know that the person you’re sharing with will be picked up after dinner, at which point your belongings go back to being filed in the “Mine, Mine, Mine” Department.