I closed the last page of the book and let out a sigh of relief. I had done it. I finished Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire in under a month. I rose from the couch, happy and eager to tell my parents. As I sprinted down the stairs to tell my mom, I thought about how I had never worked diligently on anything before. For the first nine years of my life, I had prioritized video games over schoolwork, reading, sleeping, and practically everything else in my life. For the first time, I sat myself down and forced myself to finish what I started.

I opened the door to my mom’s room and told her the good news. She looked at me, confused, and told me to finish the book, rather than lie about it. I attempted to convince my mother, to no avail, that I had finished this 636-page behemoth. I decided to wait until my dad got home from work, as he would definitely believe me. I sat in the living room, excited to have someone to corroborate my story. As he walked in the door, I ran up to him with the book. I told him the story about how I read the book in its entirety, and how mom wouldn’t believe me. He smiled and chuckled, as he said lying wasn’t the solution to my problems.

I was devastated. I put so much effort into reading that book and got nothing out of it. In hindsight, I wonder if my parents were joking or if I even read the book for the plot. Regardless, I refused to read anything other than the Percy Jackson series until my sophomore year in high school. I derived no enjoyment out of it. Suffice to say, I do not enjoy Harry Potter.

(Pre-Harry Potter)
Picture of me in 5th grade with my sister. I appear very happy.

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