My mother, like most mothers, taught me from a very early age I should never judge a book by its cover. And like most boys, I rebelled and asked her why not. I argued the cover was the most appealing aspect of the book. If the book did not grab my attention with its cover then I would not notice it, let alone read it. She would give me an ambiguous smile, which I could not interpret, and then she would then run her hand through my hair and give me no further explanation. As a result, for many years after, I only read books with vivid covers that caught my attention. I loved them all. My judgement of the book covers proved to me that my mother was wrong. I, however, was intent on personally proving this to her face.

For her forty-seventh birthday I gave her a book with the most outrageous and vibrant cover I could find. It was called "Conforming to the Whole" and, according to the blurb, it was a cautionary tale about the corruption of human nature. I had my speech ready for when my mother saw the book. It went:

'Danny, what is this?'
'Don't mind the cover,' I would respond. 'It's actually quite a fascinating book. It deals with human nature and our response to corruption.'
'Is that so?' she would say, never once taking her eyes off its cover. 'It does look like a very, um, interesting read.'
For my final blow I would retort, 'Don't judge a book by its cover, mum.'
She would look at me and give me a smile proving that I had triumphed over her.

To be sure that I had not given her a horrendous book, I bought a copy of it for myself. I was always good at speed reading and so I finished the book long before her. As expected, I loved the book. But I would constantly think about what my mother's opinion would be. Would she like it? Would she hate it? Would she be able to put her biased feelings aside and really read the book? These questions plagued my mind as the days passed by.

A few months went by and my twenty-second birthday was coming up. I awaited the arrival of my mother and her opinion of the book. When she arrived we had coffee and the birthday cake she had baked especially for me. We exchanged the goings-on in our lives for a while. I was dying to change the subject and talk about the book.

After a long chat we finally moved on to talk about the book. I, eager to give my opinion, spoke first and told her how great I thought it was. She gave me a smile; a once ambiguous smile that I now knew reflected my triumph. She then ran her hand through my hair and told me I had proven her wrong. I beamed with delight. My mother had finally approved of my judgements. She had wrongfully judged me for choosing books with intricate and lavish covers without ever reading one herself. I thought that that was quite hypocritical of her, but I would never say so.

My mother collected classical, that is to say old, books with monochromatic covers. My books would give her collection a little more colour, a little more life and excitement. Whenever I found a vibrant and eye-catching book I would buy it for her. Each book proved to be a triumph for me.

By the time she was sixty-eight years old she had accumulated quite a large collection. However, she never put away or got rid of her old monochromatic shelves. Those books would always be with her.

One Christmas, when she was seventy-six, she gave me two books. One was a green monochromatic book titled "Elapsed Time". The other book, however, was more of my style and was titled "Finding the Critical". I was surprised that she had gone out of her way to find me a book with a vivid cover of such calibre. She asked me to read the monochrome one first but her eyes and smile challenged me to do otherwise. I was forty-three by then; my hair colour had already begun to fade. I was far too old to continue with my childish rebellions. I did as she asked and read "Elapsed Time" first.

The characters in the book were predictable and somewhat superficial; the plot was not developed well enough nor fast enough and there was no real climax or resolution. All this further confirmed that my judgements were correct. The second book proved to be more enticing. The plot was fast-paced, the characters were original and the plot, climax and resolution were well thought out. I went to visit my mother and tell her about my conclusions of the books.

As I approached the house I noticed that like me, and like my mother, the house was now showing its true age. It was not run-down but it was old. It held so many memories. My mother found me staring hypnotically at the house. She met with open arms. We entered the house and had a cup of coffee. I told her my judgements about the books.

'It's not that I didn't like "Elapsed Time",' I said not wanting to hurt her feelings; I knew that she had put a lot of thought into her gift. 'It did have its interesting moments but, honestly, it was quite monotonous. "Finding The Critical" captivated me. Its storyline was more vivid, more powerful and satisfying.'

My mother, now frail and meek, ran her hands once more through my hair. Her warm and gentle mien had always comforted me. She told me that I was right again. The smile I had seen so many times was on her face once more. I smiled with her and gave her a hug. She died the following year, three weeks before her seventy-seventh birthday. I did not buy or read another book for a while.

My mother had raised me alone for most of her life. My father had died in a car accident when I was two. Yet she had made me feel as though he was there with us. She did an excellent job in making the house comfortable and safe for me. After I moved out she lived alone. I thought the house was much too large for her. Looking at it now that she was gone, the house just was not the same. It seemed smaller than I remembered, even with most of her things now packed away. How could she have lived confined in this house for most of her life? I began to put her many classical things away. Each item carried a part of her life with it, especially her books.

As I put away her vast collection of books into storage boxes, I came across "Conforming to the Whole", the first book that had cemented my triumph. I was surprised and touched to see that she had kept the book for so long. I set it aside and continued putting the rest away. Later that day I read the book once again.

The first thing I noticed was that the outrageous and vibrant cover had faded away. All that was left was a pale and weak version of what it once was. Secondly, I found its spark, the one that captivated me, had faded, almost completely gone.

I went to the boxes filled with books and took out another one of my many gifts to her. Their covers and their excitement had faded away as well. I felt nothing whatsoever for the books I had loved. Her monochromatic classics, however, still retained their pristine appearance. I took out an old Ernest Hemingway, "The Old Man and the Sea".

As I read the book I understood why my mother had loved them so. The book was incredibly moving and, I'm embarrassed to say, it brought me to tears. The poor old man in the story just could not win. His one great triumph that came after catching the great fish was taken away from him. That one triumph now remained only in his memory.

I took out an old photograph of my mother taken in her prime. She had the same ambivalent smile she had given me many years before. It was then and there that I realised that her gentle smile was actually a smile reflecting her triumph. She knew that my rebellious ways led me to love the books that she did not.

I found my copy of "Elapsed Time" and read it once again; this time I did not speed read through it. I really read it. It was still not the greatest book but I was able to appreciate it on a whole new level. I understood why the resolution was so subtle. I also understood why she had given me the two books that Christmas. She knew that one day I would no longer be confined to colourful covers and I could finally appreciate her views. She knew I would grow up. She knew.

I looked at the photograph once more. I studied her smile. It was a beautiful smile. How could I have mistakenly read her smile to mean my triumph? How could she have misguided me with it? The answer was so simple that I could not help but smile with her once again.

'Don't judge a book by its cover,' my mother used to say.

No; don't judge any thing by its cover, I told myself, because looks can be deceiving.

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