When I was in high school, my algebra teacher spent a whole school year telling me I wasn’t very bright, in front of everyone, every single time. Then one day, she accidentally handed me the exact opportunity I needed to prove her wrong.

I heard the front door slam before I got up from the couch.

My son Sammy’s backpack hit the hallway floor, and his bedroom door closed hard. I didn’t need a word from him to know the day had been rough.

“Sammy?” I called.

“Just leave me alone, Mom!”I went to the kitchen, came back with a bowl of his favorite chocolate bites I’d baked that morning, and knocked before opening his door.

He was face down on the bed, a peak 15-year-old, and groaned without lifting his head.

“I heard you,” I replied, and sat beside him.

I set the bowl where he could reach it and ran a hand over his hair.

Sammy sat up and took a piece. Then his eyes filled, fast and sudden, the way boys’ eyes do when they’ve been holding something back for hours.

“They were all laughing at me today, Mom.”

“What happened, baby?”

“I got an F in math.” He threw another piece into his mouth. “Now everyone thinks I’m stupid.