Even after they shared everything – a bed, two daughters — they kept their libraries separate. They knew their books from their folded pages (hers) and the cracks in their spines (his). If he bought a book she wanted, he’d read it, then give it to her (or give it to her, then read it).
For decades after she died, he would say, I don’t have it, but I’ll lend you your mother’s. You‘ve got to return it, though.
His daughters read her books; they creased their corners and broke their spines and still wouldn’t give them back, even after they’d finished.
Love this! Beautifully written.