Far before all the opening weekend fuss, or even the buzz about a movie in the works, my fifteen year old daughter recommended I read, The Fault In Our Stars.
There came a visceral moan from behind the door. I ran down the hall calling to her.
“Baby, are you okay?”
An inquiry that only caused an escalation in the sobbing.
Panic setting in…
“You need to open this door now and tell me what’s wrong!”
Red-eyed, puffy-faced, heaving with suppressed sobs…
“Some infinities are longer than other infinities! Hold me Mommy!!!”
The book falls out of her hands. My typically cynical, eye-rolling, aloof, teenager falls into my arms.
Naturally, I had to read this. A tome so powerful as to transform an angst-ridden pre-adult into a child in need of her mother’s arms for succor.
I read it.
Then we had our own little Book Club meeting. It went something like this…
“The night of the broken trophies. Eggs! OMG, Amsterdam!!”
“Not Augustus! Why?!!! He hates basketball! Cigarettes!!! It was his daughter!”
Tears. Snot. Kleenex.
“His words were perfect!”
Synchronized sobbing. No more Kleenex left, move on to toilet paper.
“I love that you get this mom. I love that you’re such a sap. I love that we are both book nerds. I. Love. You.”
We now have a date for the movies.