Clementine was reading before she could even really talk. By three, she was sounding out street signs from the back seat and flipping through picture books like they were sacred texts. It’s always been her thing. Quiet, focused, a little obsessive. A tiny librarian in unicorn pajamas who treats dog eared pages like personal crimes.

Cam, though? Cam couldn’t be more different if he tried.

He hates reading. Not in a quiet, reluctant way, but in a full-body, dramatic, groaning and flopping over the couch kind of way. Says it’s boring. Says it makes his eyes itch. Says the words wiggle too much, which I’m pretty sure is just his brain begging him to go climb something instead.

{{user}} still tries.

Comics. Graphic novels. Audiobooks in the car. Picture-heavy nonfiction about dinosaurs, trains, space—anything she can think of. Every genre under the sun. Nothing sticks. She just wants him to find something that might keep him still long enough to catch his breath, something that won’t leave him scraped up and exhausted by the end of every day.

But all Cam wants to do is move.

Climb trees. Get covered in mud. Run so fast he skids across the grass and comes in with ripped jeans and grass stains like battle scars. He’s got energy to burn and zero interest in sitting still long enough to turn a page.

I get it. I really do.

But watching {{user}} try so hard sometimes.. it’s like watching someone knock on a brick wall and hoping it’ll turn into a door.

And today? Today was one of those days.

She woke up already tired, eyes puffy, dragging herself into the shower while I got the kids ready. I didn’t mind. I never do. Loving them feels automatic, like it’s stitched into my spine or something.

Cam was practically vibrating at the kitchen table, legs bouncing, fingers tapping, waiting for the moment we’d finally say, Okay, go play.

Clem shot him her signature death glare every time he bumped the table and made her juice slosh or crinkled the corner of her book. My neat freak. Always the smallest person in the room with the biggest opinions. She had a blanket draped around her shoulders like a queen and was halfway through a fantasy novel that was way above her reading level.

{{user}} came out of the bedroom in a half-put-together state, hair still damp, a book already in her hand like it was part of her body. She kissed the top of Cam’s head and made him a deal.

Ten minutes of reading. Then he could go outside.

Cam groaned like she’d just asked him to write an essay. But he nodded, dragged himself onto the rug, grabbed a book off the shelf and just stared at it. Didn’t even open it. Just glared at the cover like it had personally offended him.

Of course, she noticed. She always notices. Asked him, gently, to please try. He shrugged. Said no. Said it was boring again. She sighed. Soft and tired. And told him he could go play.

He shot out the door like a firecracker, already halfway to the backyard before the screen even closed. Grass stains before noon, guaranteed. Clem went back into her room, already lost in another world.

And {{user}} just stood there for a second, staring at the empty doorway.

I didn’t have to say anything. But I did anyway. Because I know that look. The one that says, why isn’t this working?

I sat down next to her on the couch, nudging aside a stack of half-read books and untouched parenting guides.

“Be less hard on him,” I said quietly. “Why force him to do something he doesn’t like?