The author reading her daughters, "The Phantom Tollbooth," in March 2021. (Courtesy) When I was in fifth grade, and starting to experience real difficulties at home, I spent a lot of time in my public school’s library. I’m adopted, and it was around that age that I found myself more reflected in stories, than in the faces and personalities of my family. I sought refuge in books — the ones I read over and over, and the ones people thrust into my hands, saying, “I think you’d love this.” Our school librarian, an older woman named Mrs. Ross, had a reputation for being mean and scary. To me, she was like a grandmother. I sat with her and talked for hours. She gave me a book for every mood, for every woe. “Have you read this one?” she’d say. “Ooh, and this one reminded me of you.” Once, she added “The Phantom Tollbooth” by Norton Juster to the pile in my arms. “You really must read this one too!” Its blue cover with a young boy eye-to-eye with a big dog, its body a wind-up clock with Roman numerals, intrigued me. I knew I’d read this book first. I was 10. I am 48 now, and “The Phantom Tollbooth” has been my favorite book since.