In late March, a few days after my mother died from cancer, I sat in a cold living room in the north of England with my two sisters as a lawyer read my mother’s last will and testament.

We were told that her modest estate would be divided evenly among her three children, with one exception. “Her collection of over 3,000 print books would go to her oldest daughter, Leanne,” the lawyer said.

Upon hearing this, my sisters turned to me as tears welled up in my eyes. They knew that my mother and I had always shared an unwavering bond over books. My earliest memories take place in her bedroom, as I watched her blow-dry her hair with one hand and read a novel with the other.

As I grew up, my mother held my hand as we wandered through the fictional worlds of Harper Lee, Charles Dickens and Lewis Carroll. Birthdays and Christmases were always met with rectangular-shaped gifts.