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It was just before his prep-period when his daughter, a freshman at the school he taught at, peeked her head into his classroom. The moment he saw her face he knew something was wrong.
“Hey, honey,” he said, rolling his chair back from his desk, “what’s wrong?”
She bit her lip and shook her head, but against her will a tear dropped down her cheek. Phil quickly sprang out of his seat and wrapped his daughter firmly in a hug.
“I failed the test,” she muttered into his shirt.
“The test?”
“The one I studied for for weeks. The one in Ms. Weaver’s class. I failed it. ”
He pulled her back a little so he could see her face and gently tucked her hair behind her ear. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.”
Again she shook her head. “It’s not okay. I f-f-failed it! And this is after weeks of Fitz helping me study for it.”
“What grade did you end up getting on it? What percentage? It might not be a failure.”
“I haven’t got the grade back,” she said, digging the heel of her hand across her eye. “I just know I failed it.”
“You don’t know for sure if you failed it or not. And even if you did, it’s going to be okay.”
“No it’s not, dad! It will mean I failed a test that I actually really really tried for!”
He put his hands on either side of his daughter’s face and took a deep breath for her to copy. She knew the drill and did so.
“What is it I always say to you about grades, Daisy?”
She sniffed. “That they aren’t important.”
“Exactly. What is important?”
“That I learn.”
“Yes,” he smiled, “exactly. Now, did you learn?”
She took a deep breath. He could see her urge to spit back a no, but the deep breath helped and she nodded slowly.
“Then that’s all that matters.” He put his hands down and wrapped her back in a hug. “Now what would you say to me and you going for a fast food outing for lunch? I’m starving.”
She smiled against his checker print shirt and wiped her eyes again. “Can we go to McDonalds?”
“You got it kiddo.”