My dad read to me every night when I was younger. Typically one, maybe two picture books about anything and everything. Dear Garbage Man was our favorite, followed closely by The Hallo-Wiener. One night, after we had graduated from picture books to chapter books, he left his read aloud book in my room. I decided to try and read the chapter book myself. I was in first grade and it was a relatively long but easy book (though I can’t remember the name). I snuck out of bed to turn my room light on and read for hours.  I finished it in one sitting that night, and after getting about three hours of sleep on a school night, was reprimanded by my mom the next morning. I had proudly boasted to her about the night before and she wasn’t as excited about my reading milestone as I was. I understood that she wasn’t as excited as I was about me staying up behind her back, but I didn’t know why she wasn’t happier about my first chapter book. That night at dinner, my dad stayed quiet while my mom warned me against staying up late again. When I went up to bed, my dad finally gave me the reaction I had craved. He was just as excited as I was about my accomplishment. It was bittersweet though; he never read to me again after I finished that book.