By: Angela Bronner Helm VIa: http://wapo.st/ooviy0 As the sun slid over the backyard of a Brooklyn, N.Y., brownstone, the bonfire crackled and popped, its flames greedily licking the last remnants of togetherness, shared memories and even underwear. It was sated. Erica Pearson had promised herself that she was not going to cry, and she didn’t, at least not in front...