9. Lessons
Lessons
Helena
And all thy children shall be taught of the Lord ; and great shall be the peace of thy children.
Kiran and I spend our mornings at the kitchen island, pencils, notebooks, crayons scattered across the surface.
Our time together each day is my most treasured here.
He reads aloud or works through math problems while I prepare lunch, his small voice filling the room with a steady rhythm.
There’s a determination in him I admire.
He has a sweetness too, as he glances up now and then, hoping for praise.
He thrives on it, glowing like a lightbulb when he knows he’s done well.
Today, his focus is on Charlie and the Chocolate Factory .
Kiran smooths the page of his book, his brow furrowing only briefly before he begins to read aloud.
His voice wavers at first, but by the time he reaches the end of the chapter, a small smile tugs at his lips.
“Did I do okay?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
“You did,” I praise. There’s a warmth to him, a brightness that’s difficult to explain but impossible to ignore. I’ve grown close to the children I’ve cared for before, but with Kiran, it’s different. It’s as if an invisible thread connects us somehow. Like we’re kindred spirits.
He closes the book and slides it aside. His composition notebook waits beside him, and he looks to me for what’s next.
“Write two sentences about what you read,” I tell him.
He nods, quiet for a moment, then reaches for his pencil. I watch his small fingers curve around it, only for the pencil to slip away. He tries again, his brow tenses with concentration before his grip steadies and he lifts it.
“Having trouble today?” I ask, my voice careful.
He hesitates. “Not really.”
“Does that happen often?”
He glances at me, unsure. “What?”
“Things slipping, like you can’t quite grab them.”
He blinks, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Sometimes. But Pa says I just need to pay attention better.”
I nod, turning the dough onto the counter, letting the conversation settle between us. “He’s not wrong. It happens to me sometimes, too.”
His eyes widen slightly, his pencil hovering above the page. “Really?”
“Really,” I say, my hands pressing into the dough.
“Ms. Helena?” He peers up at me with hopeful eyes. “Can we make a cake for dinner tonight?”
“What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion, just happy.”
My movements still; his words linger longer than they should. “Okay, we can do that. And I’m happy too, Kiran. More than you know.”