when i was a little girl, on Sunday mornings i would crawl into bed between my parents, and my father (a writer) would tell me a story. (an original story he made up.)
my mother would go downstairs to make breakfast.
on this particular morning the story was so enthralling she stayed to listen.
i don’t remember what that story was about. what i do remember is lying in bed between my parents, listening to the most spellbinding of stories, feeling completely, utterly safe and content.
my mother would go downstairs to make breakfast.
on this particular morning the story was so enthralling she stayed to listen.
i don’t remember what that story was about. what i do remember is lying in bed between my parents, listening to the most spellbinding of stories, feeling completely, utterly safe and content.
I remember crawling in bed with my parents too. It WAS such a safe, comfy feeling.
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