I’ve always had a strong connection with books. I was a voracious reader, obsessed with books. I didn’t have access to public libraries, and buying books was a luxury, so I only had access to my school library. I devoured books until there were no more left to read.
My family wasn’t big on books, and I remember having only two books in a neglected drawer throughout my childhood. My mom thought reading was a waste of time, money, and energy. But that didn’t stop me.
I asked for books as gifts and didn’t mind secondhand books. Over time, I managed to collect a small number of my very own books and established a personal library that was the source of my childhood pride.
Fast forward to when I became a first-time mom. The first thing I did was buy baby books, and I even made my own picture books for my new baby. My first child was just as fascinated with books.
She always had a book in her hands. The library was her favorite place, and we’d often spend the first portion of the day at the school’s library. They even rewarded her several times for being a devoted reader. She would read and read and read. She would stay up past her bedtime to finish a book, exactly like I did as a kid. By kindergarten, she was reading chapter books.
It was our shared passion and unbreakable connection.
Our home library grew, thanks to our insatiable appetite for any reading material. We traveled across the Atlantic Ocean with our precious book collection. It grew even more the more my daughter grew and advanced in reading.
My husband also has the same respect for books; because he speaks different languages, we have books in at least three languages.
My younger child came into the world all set to be immersed in the wonders of books and languages. At a very young age, she showed a great interest in books, pictures, languages, and obtaining information. She had a very advanced vocabulary. But when she started school, everything changed. She quickly lost interest in anything related to reading.
I couldn’t get her to read. The only genre that interested her at some point was graphic novels, which I happily provided. I thought it was still better than nothing. But that, too, faded away. And not because she couldn’t read; she read at an advanced level and has an above-average IQ. She just wasn’t and still isn’t interested.
The vast library I accumulated with my older daughter sat on the shelves collecting dust, never touched. I waited for the day my younger daughter picked one of those books up, even out of curiosity, but that day never came. The sight of those unread books filled me with grief every time I saw them.
Finally, I decided to donate all those books. There was no point in keeping them anymore. I didn’t imagine how much it’d hurt. But every book I let go of took a piece of my heart. I remember how my older daughter enjoyed each one of them, and I remember my hopes that her sister would experience the same joy.
In part, I was genuinely happy that other kids would get to enjoy those books. But another part of me was grieving. I’m not exaggerating when I say it was one of the saddest days I’ve ever experienced. I won’t lie; I couldn’t let go of some books. I kept those for sentimental reasons. I couldn’t get myself to part with them, not yet, and maybe never.
