I am twenty-eight years old, and my father still reads to me. It’s only once a year, but each Christmas Eve, my father still reads to me and my brother. We hop on the couch in our pajamas, glass of eggnog in hand (the bourbon is a relatively recent addition), and sit back to listen. My father picks up our copy of ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. It is torn and tattered, and has crayon marks...
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