It was 9 p.m. on a rainy December night in Brooklyn and I was standing in Little Things Toy Store with my 11-year-old daughter, who was begging me to buy her a stuffed black and white Chihuahua, when I got a call on my cell phone from my identical twin sister.

"I have unfortunate news," my sister said gravely. "But first let me say: everyone is healthy. No one is dying…"

I braced for something unpleasant.

"Bernard Madoff has just been charged with the biggest Ponzi scheme in US history," she said.

Bernard Madoff: I knew the name well. His was the firm, which handled my deceased father's investments. For years my father had enjoyed a consistently good return on his principle. My stomach lurched.

"Dad's money. It's gone," she said. "This is a nightmare."

Suddenly I felt ill but still I wasn't comprehending. What was a Pansy scheme anyway? Frankly, I didn't have a clue. But I wasn't ready to learn the details. I was already having too much trouble absorbing my sister's words. Dad's money. Gone. This really was a nightmare.

Standing in the toy store, my daughter tugged at my arm.

"Mom, are you going to buy it for me?" she nagged. I was so distracted that I walked straight to the cashier and handed her the stuffed animal and my credit card to the shopkeeper. I barely registered the fact that the stuffed dog cost something like $21. My head was spinning. First my father died of colon cancer in September and now this. I didn't know what to do — or what to think.

"I'm really worried about H," my sister said speaking of my 68-year-old stepmother.

My heart pulsed at the thought. My father had told H months before he died that she had nothing to worry about, that she would be well taken care of for the rest of her life. And now this? I couldn't believe what my sister was telling me. We had each inherited 25% of my father's estate. That was my nest egg. For the first time in my life I had felt some hope of financial security.

And now my stepmother's financial future was in question. What would become of her?

I told my sister I'd call her back when I got home. I watched as the cashier put the Chihuahua in a small shopping bag. Oddly—and in just one small way—the moment reminded me of the morning of 9/11. Minutes after the second plane crashed into Tower Two of the World Trade Center, I was in the kitchen listening to WNYC with my daughter, who was 4-years-old at the time, feeling utter terror at the idea that New York City was being attacked. Simultaneously I wanted more than anything to shield my daughter from what was unfolding.

At that most horrific moment, I polished my daughter's tiny toe-nails as a way to distract her—and myself—from what was going on a few miles away in lower Manhattan.

And now I wanted her to have that stuffed black and white Chihuahua.

Walking out of the toy store, I felt dizzy, like I might faint or even throw up. Once outside, however, the cold air revived me as I made my way home wondering if I'd imagined the whole thing

Dad's money. Gone.