text: The snow day is loaded with children making snowmen and teenagers sleeping in. Fifteen-year-old Abby isn’t sleepy. Safe and warm in her bedroom, clothed in her favorite pajamas, she stands on a chair rearranging books on her beloved bookshelf. Her dad made it for her tenth birthday. It’s her favorite thing in the entire world and every time she looks at it, she thinks of him. "Your father couldn't read," her mom blurts out of nowhere. Startled, Abby turns and drops the book she was holding. Her mom is standing in the doorway, wearing one of her hideous Christmas sweaters. She's carrying a Christmas themed plate of cookies in one hand and a mug of hot chocolate in the other. "What did you say?" Abby asks staring into her mom's brown eyes. They're filled with the familiar sadness she often gets when she talks about Abby's father. Her mom sets the snack down on the desk and sits on the unmade bed. "I said, your father couldn't read." She shrugs her tiny shoulders. "Daddy couldn't read? That can't be true. How is that possible? We used to read together every Saturday at the kitchen table.” Abby is dumbfounded and hopes this is a bad joke. She cuddles up next to her mom waiting for her to explain. "Let me rephrase that. Your father couldn't read above a second-grade level,” she says, pulling Abby close and tucking her underneath her chin. "I don't understand how that's possible. How did he get through school and life?" "He slipped through the educational cracks. His childhood was unstable and his family moved all the time. When he worked his friends would help him. I would help him at home. He could write his name, pay bills, and read enough to get by,” she said. "Why didn't he ever try to learn?" "I tried to teach him and he went to a few adult literacy classes but, he would get frustrated and quit. He loved spending Saturday mornings with you. Listening to you read,” she says, picking up the plate of cookies and offering it to her. Abby loves her mother dearly but the woman cannot cook or bake. They both know it. Her mom keeps trying anyway. Abby swipes one and bites into it. It’s terrible but she schools her face into a smile. It's sweet that her mom tried to soften the blow with cookies. "I followed the recipe." "Sure, you did,” Abby says, rolling her eyes. "Ok, so why'd you wait so long to tell me this?" "He didn't want you to know. He was embarrassed. Then one day you came home with an A on your book report. You were so excited but, he couldn’t read it. After that, he was determined to learn. You do have a gift.” "Of course, you're going to say that, you're my mom.” "Maybe but, I love everything you write because you put your whole heart into it. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I guess I wasn't ready yet and I didn't want to change the way you remember your dad. But I think you needed to know. Why don’t you take some time and think about it? I’m going to finish the rest of the cookies.” Her mom gives her a tight hug, grabs the plate of burned cookies, and disappears downstairs. Abby didn't know her father couldn't read and now she doesn't know what to feel. Her mom just dropped this bomb on her and then went to burn more cookies. What is she supposed to do with this information? When she was five, she asked her parents to get her a library card. Every week they'd take a trip to the library. She would listen to storytime with the other children. Mrs. Cook was her favorite Librarian. She did all the best voices. After storytime, she'd take her time choosing several books to read. Mrs. Cook would always give her colorful book-marks. She would always save one book for Saturday mornings. She would read and sometimes stutter through new words while her mother corrected her. Her dad would sit there quietly, with a cup of coffee and smile. When she was finished reading, he would tell stories about his week. It's strange knowing that he could tell the most colorful stories but he couldn't read or write them. Throughout her childhood, the storybooks with pictures disappeared and gave way to novels that got thicker and thicker. Still, every Saturday for an hour or two she would read to her father just like Mrs. Cook. As she got older, she didn't need help with the words anymore but, it was still something special between them. Her father died when she was twelve. Saturday mornings were never the same. She stopped reading at the kitchen table. She missed her father and the strong smell of his coffee too much. Thinking back on that time seems different now. Her father was illiterate. Abby can't imagine not being able to get lost in someone else's adventures or nightmares and cheer them on as they pull themselves out of a hairy situation, or read on in terror. No one should ever be deprived of that feeling. If her father was alive, she with the help of her mother and anyone else willing to help would make sure he learned to read. You're never too old to learn. Suddenly, Abby thinks about the school book drives she volunteers for, the school paper that she writes for, and the time she spends helping the school librarians during her free period. There is no literacy program for adults at the local or surrounding libraries that she knows of. She'll have to ask Mrs. Cook about that next Saturday. She may be too old for storytime but she still spends her Saturday mornings there. Although knowing all of the history, wonderful journeys, and funny stories her father missed out on, she's glad that she knows his secret. She’s been thinking of pursuing a teaching career on and off. She can’t think of anything more satisfying than helping others travel to different worlds within the pages of a book and maybe create some of their own. It’s something to think about.