The Wife and The Child both looked exhausted when I arrived home from a late night at work, but they also seemed to glow with joy and accomplishment.
As each book grew in size from the one that preceded it, the amount of time spent to read it diminished, an inverse proportion fueled by time and imagination and engagement. The Wife and The Child now speak in a vocabulary and grammar of characters, settings, and plots that I cannot possess, will not possess, as they do. They share secret things. I am happy for both of them. I share their joy.
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