When I finally told my mother what was going on, I cried. I don’t know if it was from shame, or fear, or relief. She was sitting on the edge of my bed, which at that time was still made up in Strawberry Shortcake sheets, and covered with a matching canopy. She’d come in to read to me before bed. It’s something she did every night that I can remember. I would lie down beneath the halo of light coming from my reading lamp, and she would sit beside me, reading page after page until her voice gave out, or I fell asleep. Though, truthfully, the latter happened rarely if ever; it was more often the case that I would beg her for just one more chapter, one more page, until she had to refuse me. To this day I am an avid reader. So it’s interesting to me that what I remember most from that moment is the halo of light from the lamp. I couldn’t tell you what book she’d been reading, I’ve no idea. I couldn’t tell you what she, or I, was wearing. I only remember the halo of light surrounding her, and the utter darkness beyond. It formed a perfect oval around her outline- like she was in a bubble or egg. The stark contrast of light and shadow is what makes up most of the image in my mind. I remember the darkness. I remember covering my face with my hands as I cried. And I remember that my mother, the woman who read herself hoarse night after night for me, didn’t believe a word I said.