Читать книгу Happy Accidents - Jane Lynch, Jane Lynch - Страница 10

I WAS NOW TWENTY-FIVE YEARS OLD WHEN I WENT back home to Dolton, back to the house where I grew up, on Sunset Drive. When I walked into my old bedroom, still with its green-and-yellow shag carpeting and bedspread, there was a big “Welcome Home Jane!” banner, with balloons and everything. I turned to my mom and, half-joking, half-serious, exclaimed, “You can go home again!”

Mom was happy to have me home as well. “Look, Jane— I organized your books,” she said, waving her hand at the shelves.

“By author or title?” I asked.

“By height.” And there they were, perfectly arranged from smallest to tallest.