My father would read to me at night, tucked under a comforter covered in teddy bears, and my mom occasionally shuffled passed my bedroom door with a brief glance our way. She thought he spoiled me with books from thrift stores, he didn't seem to care. Just before my father turned off the light, I'd promise to never fall in love with anyone else because my heart belonged to him.

That's what books did to me. They made me crazy. Books made me believe anything was possible, including rides on unicorns, solving mysteries as a kid, and marrying your father.

My parents gave books to each other as gifts, a tradition that still holds to this day. Recently my father gave my mother the autobiography of Supreme Court Justice, Sonia Sotomayor, and over dinner last week they highlighted their favorite parts. We were celebrating my mom's birthday at a quiet restaurant in Corona Del Mar. When it was time to blow out the candles on her dessert, my mom closed her eyes and made a wish.

Even though it wasn't my birthday, I did the same. I wished that moment–sitting together with parents, my husband (the man who convinced me to marry him instead of my father…I'm joking!), and away from the worries of the world–would last forever. What more could a girl want than a healthy family, lots of love, and the joy of good books?