So, I was raising a kid who Would. Not. Read. A. Book. I was a certified bookworm from the time I was like nine, and his horror of reading for pleasure just mystified me.

Then one day, he picked up the first Harry Potter book. He read it through once blindingly fast, and then he read it again. And then he wanted to talk about it. And talk about it. And talk about it. And talk about it.

And then one day we ended up in line outside a bookstore waiting for midnight to strike so we could buy another another Harry Potter book. (I was mildly relieved he didn’t want to wear a costume.)

Did I complain that the Harry Potter series was derivative and clunky with more plot holes than a Time Lord could plug? I did not! I read them too so I could talk to him about them, and I learned to enjoy the parts that he enjoyed.

He was reading for pleasure, and I was thrilled.

Eventually, he branched out and read other books for pleasure, though he never became a bookworm like me.

If I had snootily judged him for his "poor taste," or tried to force science fiction classics (like the ones I loved) on him, he might never have learned to enjoy reading.

Of course, all this happened long before she who must not be named revealed that she was one of Voldemort’s horcruxes. 🤣

But, still ...