The last bedtime story

Quiero que lleve este texto porfavor ​The old, faded book of fairy tales has sat untouched on my shelf for years now. It’s been so long since I heard my mother's voice reading from those pages, it's almost a distant memory. ​I remember when I was small, lying in bed, feeling safe as she brought princes and dragons to life. For ten years, that was my nightly ritual. ​But I turned sixteen recently. The readings stopped gradually. It’s been three years since she last tucked me in and pulled out The Three Little Pigs. We got busy. She got tired, and I got homework. ​I realize now the silence wasn’t a punishment, but a sign of growing up. I haven’t asked her to read for a long time because I thought I was 'too old.' ​Today, I found the book. The scent brought everything back. I took it to the living room where she was resting. ​"Mom," I said, holding it out. "Could you read me one more?" ​She smiled, a warmth I hadn't seen since those bedtime nights. For a moment, as she began to read, I wasn't a sixteen-year-old with college worries. I was just her child, and the story had never truly ended.