When He Reads To Me Book Novels & Stories

“Look at me.” She opened her eyes, hating that once again Brandt would witness her tears. “What kind of mother doesn’t read to her child? Or at least give him books to look at himself? My God. Do you know how much my heart aches for him…” Her voice cracked. She tried to turn away, but Brandt pulled her into his arms. “You’re changing that for him. See? Can you imagine how excited he’s gonna be when you sit down with him and read those books to him?”

Emma came to the hospital almost every day. Stacy had already told her everything. That was why her eyes were red every time she came. She brought her favorite picture book and sat by my bed. She read to me in her soft, childish voice. “Dad, today I’m reading [Guess How Much I Love You]. This is the one you used to love reading to me.” She opened the book and read seriously. Sunlight streamed through the window and fell on her small profile. Her lashes cast gentle shadows on her cheeks.

“You look less like the night swallowed you.” We eat and the conversation wanders and circles things, neighbours, the stubborn plant on the windowsill, and a book he is reading. He reads to me a paragraph from the book, and even though the words are not meant to be a balm, they become one. There is a rhythm to his voice that steadies me, cadence, warmth, attention.

I guided him into my rooms and changed him into his night time clothes. “Can you read to me, mama?” he asked, and I smiled with a nod. He opened the nightstand cabinet to pick from the row of children’s books I read to him each night. He chose a fairytale one about a prince and a princess. As I read to him the story about the prince saving the princess, something seemed to resonate on his face. When the story was over, and I flipped to the last page about the prince and the princess moving into the beautiful palace to live happily ever, he looked up at me with a grin.

My body sliding down to the floor as I sit on the floor, my back resting on it and somehow, I can tell he is doing the same. After some minutes, I see a book slide under the door, a favorite book of mine as I pick it, his voice saying from the other side of the door "Read to me" Read to me. Just like how he always asks me to. I want to not read, I want to tell him to go away. I know he does not ever listen and actually understand what I say, but he still keeps asking me to read. So I do that. I pick the book, my hands trembling as I flip open a page, my eyes landing on the it as I begin to read "Ben h-has to learn about s-surviving on h-his own. He would miss his g-grandma and her c-cookies

He came in, five minutes later, he had me waiting just thinking about the punishement I'm about to receive, he came in and took a seat on the sofa, and pulled me into his arm, placing me in his arms. My bum was still down, and not up in the air, it was safe so far which worried me even more, he pulled me back until my back was against his chest and then he got the book and opened it. "It seems you're too small to read on your own, daddy is going to read for you," he says, this sounds like he's going to read me a story.

“Can you read me a story?” My heart pinched. “I thought you were tired.” “I am,” he said quickly. Then softer, almost shy, “But I’ve missed you reading to me.” That did it. I sighed in mock defeat and sat back down on the bed. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” He grinned. I picked up the book from the nightstand, settling beside him, one hand rubbing slow circles on his arm while the other flipped open the page. As I read, my voice softened without me trying. Each word slowed, stretched. My palm moved rhythmically against his arm, then his back.

I ask, sitting down on the floor beside him, a smile soft on my lips. “The Gruffalo,” he says, looking up at me. “I can’t read,” he adds with such a serious, mature tone that I have to stifle a laugh. “Oh, then what are you doing?” “Mummy used to read this—the Gruffalo. I like to look at the pictures.” My heart skips a beat. “If you want, I can read it to you tonight. But first, we still need to go out and buy groceries. You’ll come with me, won’t you?”

He lay down on the bed, placing his head on her legs. A moment later, Vivian heard his monotonous voice. "She clung to the broken pieces, praying for light to come tomorrow..." Frowning, she lowered her book to catch a glimpse of him. "What the hell are you reading?" "A book I bought from the bookstore." "For what?" "I heard that children like to hear their father's voice, so I will read to them." Vivian scoffed in disbelief. "What books are you reading? Peanuts won't understand."

"That the people who stay are the ones who were supposed to." He looked at the book. "Not the ones who were convenient. Not the ones who were merely suitable." He looked back at her. "The ones who were supposed to." She sat with that for a long moment. Then: "Read it to me." He looked at her. "It's a children's book." "I know," she said. "Read it to me." Something moved in his expression. "All right," he said. He opened the book. He read it in twenty minutes—the whole of it, slowly, in the kitchen with the September evening at the windows and the south garden doing its seasonal work and the house quiet around them in the way it was quiet on Friday evenings when it was simply being held by th