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And then he had stepped back, because apparently one of us possessed a functioning sense of judgment.
I stare at my coffee. This is pathetic. I take another drink of coffee.
Anya looks at me. “Are you thinking about math?”
I blink. “Something like that.”
“Can we do the puzzle book after breakfast?”
“Absolutely. I need something to occupy my brain before it gets me into trouble.”
She grins. “Papa says that too.”
By ten, we are sitting in the smaller library with our books spread across the table.
I have discovered that Anya learns best when she can see why something works, so instead of making her complete endless worksheets, we have been turning the lessons into little problems she can solve herself.
Today we are working on fractions using a drawing of a pizza.
I have an actual degree in finance and economics, and apparently my most useful professional skill is explaining why three-eighths of a pizza is less than one-half.
Honestly, it is more satisfying than most of the jobs I have applied for.
“If you eat three slices out of eight, how much is left?” I ask.
Anya studies the drawing. “Five-eighths.”
“Correct.”
“And if you eat two slices?”
“Then I have made an excellent decision.”
She laughs. “Elle.”
“Six-eighths, which simplifies to three-quarters.”
She writes it down.
I watch her for a moment.
She is bright, curious, and unusually patient when something interests her. She asks questions most children would never think to ask, and when she doesn't understand an answer, she keeps working at it instead of immediately asking me to do it for her.
I like that about her.
I also like that she has started treating me as though I belong here, which is a dangerous thing to enjoy when I am trying very hard to remember this arrangement is temporary.
“Do you think Papa will let me go back to school next week?” she asks suddenly.
I look up. “Have you asked him?”
“Yes.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said ‘we'll see.’”
I wince. “Ah. The parental phrase that means absolutely nothing and somehow ends every discussion.”
