Horrible stories about people falling under trains and losing limbs are not usually my mug of hot chocolate. I used to be addicted to nothing but feel-good, heart-racing, skin-tingling, he-held-my-hand, young adult fiction. Some say that reading should be an escape, and therefore, a book should transport us to good, happy places. But then I discovered that, sometimes, escaping INTO the danger, sadness, tragedy and other realities of someone else's shoes is immensely more sati

The other night I was minding my own business, reading a book as my husband tried to sleep. I say tried because sometimes (ok, almost EVERY time) when I'm reading, he can't seem to relax. He tosses and turns a little bit, pulls the blanket up over his head, fluffs his pillow numerous times, and finally turns to look at me. I try to ignore him, but then he gently takes my right hand in his, and just holds it. Then he squeezes it and rubs the back of my hand with his thumb. You