(thirteen) April 2008. My favorite place in our house is right here. Pick a bed, pick a reading lamp, pick a book, pick a shoulder. Tonight we read The Polar Express, I’m not sure what the title was on this particular night in the photo. We never miss a night of this. We read to F, we read beside (and sometimes to) E, we read next to each other in bed before we both fall asleep. I’m up late tonight – I’ve just wrapped up one final online project, and it’s late. In just a few sentences I’ll stop typing, and then walk around the house, turning off reading lamps as I go. No matter how the day goes, no matter what challenges it may bring, we always have this. The girls transform overnight, each night; I rub my eyes in disbelief each morning as I rouse their giant bodies out of bed. But they transform again each night into a mop of bath-damp hair, the scent of bubble mint and baby soft skin, the deepening sighs and heavy lids. The only price is a story, and we’re rich as thieves in them.