When I was in the second grade, a friend asked me what my favorite bedtime story was. When she said the words, they lingered in my head: bedtime story? Puzzled, she explained to me simply, “Stories your parents read to you before you go to sleep.” I can still vividly remember how my heart dropped, too heavy to be kept in place, how my eyes, like a broken dam, flooded the space on my cheeks, and how I already deeply yearned for something I didn’t even know existed a few seconds before.Â
Thinking about it now, it’s silly how a normal question evoked so much emotion out of me as an 8-year-old girl. But, I think my mind instinctively knew that a simple story at night wasn’t the real reason the warm tears had trickled down my face that day. Rather, it was the want — no, the need, for parents who could be so attentive towards their children; parents who could dedicate their time and lovingly send them off to sleep with good dreams rather than loudly demanding they go to bed at 9 p.m.Â
I adored my parents, and when they adored me, it was a feeling that could make hearts glow, but again, their attention never stayed within the house for long. With tears all dried up and a sympathetic hug from my innocent friend, I was determined to get a bedtime story out of my parents that day.
I can’t remember the bus ride home. Only the feeling; the feeling of pure excitable energy, the feeling of hope as my legs swung back and forth the entire way home like two children on a swing set. When I got home that day, I didn’t say my usual “hello.” Instead, I ran straight to my messy pile of books in my little room and scrambled to find the perfect one. Cat in the Hat? No. If You Give A Mouse a Cookie? No. Click Clack Moo? No. It felt like I was desperately digging for treasure, and when I hit gold, it was perfect: The Giving Tree.Â
With the book in hand, I ran straight for my parents who were always in the kitchen enjoying their endless cups of coffee. Even as a child, I always noticed what an exhausted adult looked like. The deep set of dark circles, slight frowns, and hunched shoulders pleading for the soft support of a pillow to rest their burdens on. I guess that’s what the coffee was for, right?
When I got to the kitchen, my eyes glanced across every corner to locate my mother and father, but to my dismay, I knew my mother’s absence from the dining table meant she was already at work, long gone from the house. There was only my exhausted father leaning against the back of a chair that I could inquire about this new proposition. I slowly tiptoed my way into the kitchen, each footstep like feathers on water.
Unlike the bus ride home, I can remember every detail about this moment. When I got the courage to ask my father if he could read this book to me before bedtime, he gave me a tired and worried look as he stood up from his chair, no longer resting. It was selfish of me to ignore the signs of sleepless nights, but I wanted a bedtime story. I wanted to be sent off to sleep full of happiness, love, and endless possibilities for dreams, so I pointed at the title hopingly. The Giving Tree. Was he going to say yes?
Hope instantly left my body when I heard my father struggle to read the title. He paused at the first two letters T and H. “Thuh” I thought. There were only three words in total, that weren’t even difficult for a second-grader like me to read, so why couldn’t he say the title? He was an adult and I was a child.
I only ever heard my father speak Spanish, while my mother and I switched from Spanish to English without effort, but it never clicked in my mind that he couldn’t switch like that. Spanish was his language and the only one he ever knew. With his brows furrowed and a slight gleam in his eyes, he only responded with “Lo siento.”
In my eight years of life at the time, I’d never seen my father look so destroyed and embarrassed. I wanted to continue being selfish, plead some more, cry, and maybe throw a tantrum because I wanted what I wanted; but at that moment, I felt more embarrassed and ashamed for making my father, who was always so stoic, feel that way. I don’t think I understood the gravity of the situation, but I no longer needed a bedtime story. All I wanted to do was hug him. So I did.
This memory is engraved in my mind. A memory that changed the course of my life, as well as my relationship with my father. After that moment I didn’t ask for any more bedtime stories. Rather, I created those bedtime stories for him. If he couldn’t read them to me, why shouldn’t I read them to him?
Besides, all I ever really wanted was to spend time with my parents. And were my stories good? Probably not, but I still wrote them and cherished the moments when I’d read them to him; stories about dragons and princesses, superheroes, and even about fathers who loved their daughters deeply.
My stories allowed my father to sleep with good dreams, finally relieving the burdens off his shoulders for a moment’s rest.