My husband, Philip, held the book of fairy tales I had bought from a used bookstore for my niece’s ninth birthday. “Well, not that one, but I’ve read fairy tales before,” I said as I shut the door and stepped out of my heels. He shook the hardback of nearly 500 pages. “Not like these.” “Yeah, sure I have. ‘The Ugly duckling,’ ‘The Emperor’s New Suit,’ ‘The Little Mermaid’…” “Right-right-right. These are them, but not like the ones I’m sure you’re thinking of. They’re not all fairy princesses and happy endings. They’re darker, full of hardship and pain and broken hearts.” “All right,” I said. His excitement confused me because it didn’t match what I thought he was saying. “Do you think I should take it back and get Emily something else?” “No. I mean, yes, you should get Emily something else. But no, don’t take this back.” I scratched my head. “Are you okay?” “I’m more than okay—I’m terrific!” He set the book down on the couch, wrapped his arms around me, and twirled us around.
