It should come as no surprise that there are whole walls in my house dedicated to bookshelves. But the books in my house that me and my better half have collected have absolutely nothing on the tonnage of books at my parents house. I grew up surrounded by books. I read genre fiction because that’s what I was raised on. I had The Hobbit read to me when I was eleven… ish? And after that I went right for my parents books. (Remember, YA wasn’t a thing in the early 90s) So I spent years upon years just reading their books. It wasn’t until I was 20, junior year of college, that I really started piling up my own tonnage of books.
So the catalyst of this anecdote, I often ask my mom and dad to see about digging up books for me to borrow for rereads. (Some of which just end up living at my house, like Gamearth)
Me: Hey mom, I read this book… oh a dozen years ago I think… It’s about people uploading their brains into an online utopia kind of place. I remember reading it in the front half of college but I never finished it. Got pwn’d by finals or something. Do you still have it? I think the cover was silver.
Mom: Absolutely.
Circuit of Heaven appeared on the table fifteen minutes later.
Also… The cover is actually kind of greenish. She found it anyways.
Mike Douton's Stuff and/or Junk 
That is especially remarkable because our mother’s books overflow off the shelves, on the floor, down the staircases, in the garage, I even found a few last time I was there between the water heater and the cat box.
And the story is complete now. =D
Sometimes I forget that other people’s houses aren’t like that.