“Honey!” Amy bellowed from the kitchen. “Will you call Dani down? I’m ready to dish up.” This announcement was followed by an explosive clattering of pans.
Peter’s head was nearly walled in on both sides of his small desk, surrounded with his senior students’ midterm papers, two enormous stacks teetering on the ends of his desk. He’d been at it for several hours, and it showed. Though he was weary and, like in all his years of teaching, frustrated by his students’ general lack of enthusiasm, he was so proud of Danielle. Her pretty face smiled at him, from the mahogany frame next to his desk lamp. Now in junior high, he could see her ability to creatively think through complex issues growing daily. What really pleased him, though, was her willingness—even boldness—to ask challenging questions of her teachers.
Smiling at the thought of his daughter intellectually—but graciously, he was certain—poking holes in her teachers’ assertions, he slowly sat back in his old, creaking office chair and laid his bifocals in the small remaining open area of the desk. Arching into the chair, he leaned back, stretched his arms over his head and rocked back and forth a few times. Finally, he pushed his fingers through his thinning, salt and pepper hair—more salt now than he wished—and hollered back to his wife, “Okay!”
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