"A+B=C." I can still hear the perfect penmanship and assertive intuition of his ball point pen. He sat there, studying me. I could hear his thoughts smudged with my own insecurities: "She can't do this. Genetically something is wrong."

Years later, I found the textbook. It was inscribed:
"1989. Your grandfather loves you."
He had never told me. I had not been wise enough to ask. I may have hated algebra, but I loved him.


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