This morning, both The Los Angeles Times and The New York Times reviewed my first book, The Black Girl Next Door: A Memoir. The New York Times review made the front page of the Weekend Arts section and featured both pictures of the book cover and me.  The Los Angeles Times article was similarly prominent and lengthy.   Both of the reviews were both thoughtful, engaging and mostly favorable; as much as any writer could ask.

Writer friends and folks from the publishing world helped me understand the rare achievement of having both major papers review my book on the same day.  It almost never happens, much less to a rookie writer like me.    What has happened to me is almost unheard of.

Of all the books published and submitted for consideration, The New York Times and The Los Angeles Times picked my book out of the stack and paid attention to the words I wrote from my gut.  I know I’m blessed.

But for as gratified as I am by the recognition that the reviews represent, I want to explain why today was a dream come true for me.

This morning, my child awoke at 4 am complaining of itchy skin.  Like so many other mornings, I tended him and helped him get back to sleep.  We sat down to our usual breakfast and then I took him to school.

I made a batch of vegan chocolate chip cookies last night and dropped them off at my girlfriend’s house so that she can munch them tonight as she supervises a teen slumber party.

Sure, I tried to find a copy of The New York Times and asked my mom to set aside a copy of The Los Angeles Times.  But I only read each review once.

This afternoon, after my son and I came home, the love of my life stopped by with extra copies of the New York Times and a loaf of Italian bread.   We set the newspapers aside because he had to get back to work.  He kissed me and gave me one of his signature hugs.

My son and I have laid out blankets on the floor and are watching television, his weekend treat.  I’m wearing a worn fleece jacket and the same sweats I put on this morning.

Today was a dream come true because, through the breakdown of my marriage and a painful divorce, I wondered if I would ever feel truly loved and accepted. I wondered how I would ever actually finish the book I had longed to write.   I wondered if my decisions to divorce his dad and quit my fancy job had scarred my kid beyond recognition.

This evening, I have my answers to those questions.  Today, like so many other days before, my man has shown me that he loves me regardless of how many books I sell or what reviewers say about my metaphors.  My book is on bookstore shelves and is being discussed. My kid is okay, and so am I.