“… and what about this last section?” I ask.
“It’s Writing. Sentence Improvement.”
“So how will you do these?”
“Read the sentence first to see if anything sounds off. Then trim it — cross out interrupters, prepositional phrases and modifiers. Eliminate the wrong answers. Guess if I have to.
“How many will you do?”
“At least half, but they go easy to hard, so if I need to I’ll skip the last ones.”
“Very good.” I close the book. “I think you’re ready.”
“Thank you,” she says, and she means it. “This helped, like, so much.”
I walk her out to the living room, say goodbye to her dad. “I’ll miss seeing you — ” I say, and mean it just as much.
“I know; me, too,” she laughs.
“I’m proud of you,” I finish. “I know you’re going to do a great job. Let me know how it goes.”
“We’ll call you with the results,” her dad says, as they close the door. “Thanks again.”
I wave, turn on the porch light, lock the deadbolt behind them.
That fluttery feeling — out in the real world, what will happen? Will she meet her goals? Did I do my job?
This must be what it’s like, interrupts my subconscious. Being a parent.
