The Bookstore

6 p.m. might seem very early to the average person, but after you have kids, 6 p.m. takes on an entirely different meaning. Tonight, I would not be cooking dinner, washing dishes, starting baths, or reading stories. Instead, I would be going out… alone. A word that was becoming foreign to me. This would happen every couple of months, where I would reach my breaking point and unleash my fury on everyone. It was silently understood that I would need to be alone.

I got into my car—no music or podcast, just silence. I could finally gather my thoughts. I would go to my favorite bookstore, where I could browse the adult section at my leisure, really take my time. I smiled at the thought.

The bookstore sat on a narrow side street, the kind you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it—a weathered brick building, cloudy windows, and a hand-painted sign so old you could barely make out the name: Copper Moon Books. Inside, it smelled like paper and oak and something sweet—maybe cinnamon or spilled wine. The walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling. Mismatched tables covered in books filled the gaps. I imagined it turning into a speakeasy after closing for the day.

A small bar tucked into the back served wine and craft beer—nothing fancy, just enough to make people linger. The light was low and forgiving, golden from mismatched lamps and a chandelier that hummed softly when the door opened. I could hear the gentle, melodic sound of a guitar, remembering there was live music on the weekends. It wasn’t trendy or curated; it was lived in—a little dusty, a little crooked, and completely perfect. A New York City bookstore in the middle of Los Angeles.

I did enjoy reading, but tonight wasn’t about the books—it was the connection I needed. With anyone. The waitress, who I imagined was pursuing an English degree full-time and only worked here on the weekends. The couple sitting next to me, who were clearly on a first date based on their body language. The old man behind me, typing away on his laptop. Even though they were strangers, I took comfort in simply being in the same room as them, feeling like I already knew them based on my perception of them.

I was surrounded by fiction, mystery, crime, horror, sci-fi, fantasy, action, romance. Story after story. As I waited for my orange wine, I wondered what my story would be.

I had given in to motherhood as my calling, but I was being called in a new direction. It felt consequential this time, unlike all the other times. Let’s see—there was the time I wanted to be an astrologer, a nutritionist, a closet organizer, a pharmacist, a marathon runner. Oh, and a vintage store owner. And that one time I wanted to move to India and study yoga. I laughed. All my mom friends drank wine and took Xanax as an outlet. No matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t for me. I was slowly forgetting who I was before kids, and that terrified me.

I stopped by the self-help section on my way in and stared at the titles: Feel the Fear… and Do It Anyway. The Happiness Project. Self-Compassion. Breathe In, Boss Up. And my favorite: You’re Not Dead, Just Depressed.

Am I dead and just don’t know it!? Maybe that’s the problem. I briefly remembered that final scene in The Sixth Sense. I laughed nervously, then took a gulp of wine.

I opened Stop Surviving, Start Thriving, quickly placing the cover down. I kept my head still as I looked around, only moving my eyes, hoping no one saw. After reading a chapter, I slammed the book shut while rolling my eyes.

I looked at my phone. I couldn’t believe an hour had gone by. I could hear the old man packing up his laptop, which I took as a cue to also pack up and go before the mom guilt started setting in. I stopped myself and referred to the affirmations I’d just read. I repeated them in my head: You weren’t born to survive—you were born to shine. Your peace is not negotiable.

Is this what my life has come down to? Secretly reading self-help books over a glass of wine alone at the bookstore? This is not what I signed up for. I sipped the last bit of wine and headed to the romance section.

Maybe what I needed was a new book—a subtle way to escape. I looked carefully down the shelves, book by book—so many colors, titles, shapes. It was overwhelming. It was more fun to close my eyes and pick blindly.

When I was feeling lost, I’d dig out my old deck of medicine cards. Each card represented an animal—a moose (self-esteem), a wolf (teacher), or a raven (magic). You’d choose blindly, then refer to the book the deck came with, letting it tell you what it meant. It was always spot on. I imagined it was the same concept when picking out a novel blindly—a story full of hidden messages, or a glimpse into what my future might bring.

I looked around to make sure no one was watching. I closed my eyes and began to graze the books with my fingertips. I was led here tonight for this moment, where I would finally have some answers.

I was startled by a man’s voice.

“Do you need help finding anything?”

My nightmare came true. I must have looked like a complete weirdo. Praying he didn’t notice, I looked up to say no thanks when I was struck by his presence. He stood there, cool and confident. I was confused—did he even work here? He didn’t seem the type. But the flash of his name tag—Milo—confirmed it.

He dressed simply: rolled-up sleeves, leather boots, the faint smell of tobacco and coffee. He was so out of place. Why the hell was he working in this bookstore? I was intrigued and needed to know more.

“Just looking,” I said, matching his gaze.

He stared at me like he knew me. His eyes told me he had a past; his energy told me he had overcome it.

“So… have you read anything good lately?” he asked innocently.

I wanted to respond with, “Well, I just finished The Hungry Caterpillar. Have you read it? I highly recommend it,” but instead I just responded with a simple, “Not really.”

He nodded again. Quiet. Hard to read.

“Would you like a recommendation?” he asked smoothly.

“Sure,” I said, as I followed him.

In the fiction section, he gently grabbed a book simply titled James. He described it; I watched as his face lit up in the process. It was cute. There was a comfort about him.

It was then the conversation turned personal.

Questions like: Did you grow up here? Do you like it here?

He was born and raised in LA, unlike me, who was from New York. He was one year older than me. We continued talking for forty minutes. Even though he didn’t have kids, it seemed like he viewed the world as I did—temporary and predictable.

His shift seemed to be over as he started to take off his name tag.

“I gotta go, but it was really nice talking to you,” he said as he dashed off in a hurry.

I stood there, slightly buzzed from the wine and the conversation. I pretended to look around a bit longer, not wanting him to think I was following him. When I walked out the door, I gripped my new book that I would probably never read tightly to my chest.

I was caught off guard when I heard Milo’s voice, apologizing for cutting off our conversation so abruptly.

The words “It’s ok,” blurted out of me, followed by a nervous giggle.

He sat on a bench in the dark, maybe waiting to be picked up by someone. There was a mystery to him. I imagined his girlfriend coming to meet him after her shift was over, like she did every night. Or maybe he wasn’t allowed to drive because his license was revoked from a DUI. Or the worst option: he couldn’t afford a car.

As I drove home, I tried to analyze the conversation, going over every detail, hoping I didn’t reveal too much—as I usually did. Why did I do that? Was it because my kids were the only people I talked to these days? So when I finally saw an adult, I jumped at the chance to tell them my life story, hoping someone would listen? Was it a cry for help? I really needed to try and be more elusive.

It had been a long time since I had a lengthy conversation with a stranger who happened to be a good-looking man. I didn’t know I needed that. It felt nice for someone to find me interesting.

Am I interesting?

I wouldn’t even know anymore.

The only conversations I’d had lately were about my kids and how tired I was. I wondered: if you stop talking about topics that move and inspire you, do you lose that capacity to speak? Do you forget all the interesting things stored in your head? Use it or lose it?

I imagined everything was still intact in my brain but covered in cobwebs, like an old car that had been sitting under a tarp for thirty years.

I sighed as I pulled back into my driveway. Back to my family. Back to reality. I smiled as I thought about Milo—the guy at the bookstore—and how, apparently, I am very much alive.