They say not to judge a book by its cover.

They are probably right. But I can’t help it, I do it every time.

That Saturday morning, I was strolling through the bookstore, sipping a double chocolate chip Frappuccino, wandering the aisles with no real intention. The fiction section stretched endlessly before me, thousands of spines lined up like quiet strangers waiting to be chosen.

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. I was simply browsing, hoping a cover might speak to me.

Maybe even call my name.

Most didn’t. Then I saw it.

The cover was unassuming, almost forgettable. Just the profile of 2 young women looking somewhere beyond the frame. No dramatic colors. No thunderous promise of mystery. Just quiet stillness.

Still, I picked it up.

That was my mistake.

I made the fatal decision to read the first line.

“The first time I tried to kill my sister, I was four years old.”

I froze.

A stranger passing by might have thought I’d simply lost my place, but the truth was simpler: the book had already claimed me.

There was no debate, no lingering. I closed it carefully, held it against my chest like a secret, and walked straight to the register.

Only later, curled on the couch with afternoon light spilling through the window, did I glance again at the cover and finally read the name.

Jodi Picoult.

It turns out some books don’t wait to be chosen.

They choose you.

© 2026 Addie DeRose