I read about a hundred books a year. Most of them are audiobooks, which I get for free through the local library. It’s one of those habits that has been with me since I was young, the library as a place, the books as company. My goddaughter is also a reader, and a few months ago we got her a library card. Usually she reserves books online and I pick them up on my way back from school drop-off. But occasionally we’ll go together to browse.
A few weeks ago the library had a book sale. My goddaughter and I left with bags. My son came with us and looked around, but I could see pretty quickly that he wasn’t having a good time. The sale was crowded and overwhelming. Books are hard for him. Reading is hard, comprehension is hard, and a room full of them without a clear purpose is a lot to navigate.
We went back this past weekend, the three of us. No sale this time, just browsing. While my goddaughter moved through the poetry section, I took my son to the computer to look up Rocket League and eSports books. Nothing in stock. We walked over to the gaming section. Nothing caught his eye. But the drawing section was right next to it, and he knew I liked to draw, so he pointed it out to me. That’s who he is.
He was a good sport. He tried. But he was miserable and I could see it.
I walked over and put my arm around him. “This isn’t your thing,” I said.
“Not really,” he said.
“Go sit in one of the chairs and use your phone.”
He found a chair and opened his chess app.
He picked up chess from me. I was playing for a while and he got curious, the way he does. Then Duolingo added chess and gamified it and he had his own relationship with the game. Now he does the lessons and the challenges on his own. We’ll play each other on our phones when we’re waiting at appointments, or sitting for the thirty minutes after his allergy shots. Sometimes we’ll pull out the board and play at home.
Just like that, he was fine.
I watched him for a second before heading back into the stacks. There was something about seeing him settle in that felt right. Not because he had given up, but because he didn’t have to pretend anymore. I worry sometimes that when we do things like this, he thinks he’s disappointing me. That his not being into something I love means he’s falling short somehow. Saying it out loud felt like giving him permission to just be where he was.
Reading has always been a challenge for him. It has to be something he’s genuinely interested in to get him over the hurdle. A Fortnite magazine, a Minecraft guide, something with pictures and a clear purpose. It helps when I read to him, doing the voices, making the connections, reminding him who the characters are and what happened before. Without that scaffolding, it’s a lot to hold.
I think sometimes about what it would be like if reading weren’t so hard for him. Not because I need him to love books. Plenty of people don’t, and that’s fine. But when something is hard, you know it’s hard. He knows it’s hard. And I wonder sometimes what it costs him to be in a place like this, surrounded by something that doesn’t come easily, watching the people he’s with light up over something he can’t quite reach.
It’s not about books. It’s about things being harder for him than they should be. That feeling surfaces in different places. This weekend it surfaced in a library.
He found a chair. I went back to the stacks. My goddaughter kept reading.
It doesn’t run smoothly yet. I’m helping her navigate, checking on him, not really lost in the shelves the way I’d be on my own. But there’s something there. A place where each of us can find our version of being there. Him with his chess. Her with her books. Me somewhere in between, figuring it out as we go.
We’re not there yet. But we’re going.
