My mother would read from bedtime story books, but my father would make up his own. I found his tales most intriguing and often asked him to repeat my favourite ones. Those repeats were the most fun as they came out differently each time. We "play" this little game sometimes even now (not often, though) when I sleep over at their place, and we both have a great time, with my mother putting in her own twopence worth, and my father playfully shooing her away for interfering in his narrative.
Yes my mother. My father a few times. She read me The Ugly Duckling over and over. Eventually I got that was supposed to be me. And when I didn't mature into a swan she blamed herself as well as me. After that we were never close and I missed that closeness.
