Y’s father arrived at the center with Y in tow, chest puffed, wearing the expression of a man who has been wronged and intends to set the record straight.
The story came out quickly. Y had brought home an addition and subtraction worksheet from class. One of the problems was 31 minus 14, and Y had written 11. His father corrected him — the answer is 17 — but Y refused to accept it. We have to ask Sonun eje, he said.
So here they were. Father and son, having made the trip across town, to have my wife officially rule on the matter. She confirmed that yes, the father was correct. She sent Y home with three pages of practice problems to work through over the break.
To the second-graders at our center, my wife is something close to a mathematical oracle. They watch her produce answers — instantly, without so much as a glance at her fingers — and their eyes go wide. She might as well be doing magic.
So naturally, when there is a dispute, there is only one authority worth consulting. Dad might be wrong. Dad’s arithmetic should probably be verified by Sonun eje, just to be safe.
I keep thinking about the two of them — the father, marching in with all that indignant energy, not angry exactly, just determined; and the son, who loves his father perfectly well but simply will not accept an answer that hasn’t been certified by the proper institution.
They were both so completely, helplessly endearing.