I’m not sure if this is the first book I ever finished, but it’s likely the one that holds some of my fondest childhood memories.
It disarmed my mother, who could be equally warm and severe, or chaotic. This was a book we read together, and I felt the love openly shared between us. She held me tight, kissed me, and told me she loved me so much.
I was scared of the dark for years. We would read it to each other in bed, and on those nights, I felt totally loved. Those moments are my favorite of my mother. I didn’t feel as though I needed to be less or more of a version of myself to receive love.
Who I was and who she was in the moments with that book were enough.
I’m not sure who needed it more…

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