At a family Passover seder in Queens, I was sitting at the kids’ table, like every other year of my life beforehand. Clinking her glass, my mother announced to my extended family that I had “become a woman”. Looking back on it, I understand this moment and the day of my first period as my first of many encounters with shame. My tante Nina, my great-aunt, must have recognised something in me. Later that night, in her bedroom, which smelled like cat litter and had everyone’s winter coats piled on to the bed, she told me a story. It was...