My first-ever book club had only two members: me and my mom. Aside from our routine Sunday afternoon visits to our local library, there wasn’t any real formality or structure to our meetings. But I cherished that quality time, carefully browsing book spines in search of our next selection.

As I grew up, so did my appetite for reading. My single mother tried her best to keep up with the demand, but sometimes exhaustion from a long work day would trump a trip to the library. Bored of rereading the books I’d checked out, I gravitated to unexplored territory—her stash of romance novels. To my surprise, not only did my mom accept my newfound interest in her romance literature, but she also allowed me to ask questions about what I was reading. Talking about these romance books with my mom sparked some of the realest conversations we’ve ever had. We spoke about everything from love, sex, relationships, and happy endings to problematic tropes, like the damsel in distress.

I continued reading these novels well into my teenage years but still wasn’t completely sold on the genre. Well, my issue wasn’t with the genre itself, more so with the lack of diversity in most of the stories. Years of reading about mostly white, blue-eyed characters gave me the impression that the writers and book industry gatekeepers didn’t care enough about people like me (a young Black woman) or my mom (a grown Black woman) to write and publish romances that included and spoke to us.