The lesson was not about impressing people.
It never was.
It was about standing at the front of a room with a photograph and a notebook and every word true, and not making yourself smaller while you wait for the world to catch up.
My mother had taught me that before the assembly.
Before Mr. Reynolds.
Before Hero’s Week.
She had taught it at the kitchen table, correcting my grammar without looking over my shoulder, just knowing.
That was the thing I had always been proud of.
That was always the whole point.
