He was wrong, I knew.
Wrong about books, wrong about
fiction, wrong about me.
It started with a dumb comment, something
passive aggressive, something I'd grown
to ignore. His tone had a superior
edge to it as he proclaimed that stories
aren't important, aren't useful, don't
add anything to society.
I should've let it roll off. I should've
continued not to care, just telling myself he
is the way he is, and nothing I will do, nothing
I can do will change that, but thinking about
losing myself in the words of JK Rowling or
Alexander Dumas or Harper Lee, thinking
about the way they'd changed my life made me
snap. Before I knew it, my words were biting
without restraint, letting him know what I felt,
and something changed. He actually listened.
For the first time, he was the one to back down.
