When I was in high school, my algebra teacher spent an entire year putting me down in front of everyone, every single time. Then one day, she unknowingly handed me the exact chance I needed to prove her wrong.
I heard the front door slam before I even got up from the couch. My son Sammy’s backpack hit the hallway floor, and his bedroom door shut hard. I didn’t need him to say a word to know it had been a bad day.
“Sammy?” I called.
“Just leave me alone, Mom!”
I went to the kitchen, came back with a bowl of his favorite chocolate bites I’d baked that morning, and knocked before opening his door.
He was face down on the bed, a typical 15-year-old, and groaned without lifting his head.
“I said, leave me alone.”
“I heard you,” I said, sitting beside him.
I placed the bowl within his reach and gently ran my hand through his hair. Sammy sat up, took a piece, and then his eyes filled suddenly—the way boys’ eyes do when they’ve been holding everything in for too long.
“They were all laughing at me today, Mom.”
“What happened, baby?”
“I got an F in math.” He tossed another piece into his mouth. “Now everyone thinks I’m stupid. I hate math. I hate it more than broccoli. And Aunt Ruby from Texas.”
I laughed despite myself, and he almost smiled, which was a small victory.
“I understand that feeling more than you think, Sammy.”
He glanced at me. “You do? But Mom, you’re like… good at everything.”
“Sammy,” I said, leaning back against the headboard, “when I was your age, my algebra teacher made my life miserable.”
That caught his attention. He set the bowl down and sat cross-legged, facing me.
“What do you mean?”
