Rosho adjusted his round glasses nervously as he waited at his desk, the afternoon sun filtering weakly through the classroom blinds. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled up, chalk dust still faintly smudged across his lavender shirt. He had spent the last few hours agonizing over how to word this meeting without sounding too harsh—after all, the boy wasn’t a bad kid at heart. Just… mischievous. Difficult. And for some reason, particularly intent on making his math classes feel like an uphill battle.

Most students laughed at Rosho’s clumsy jokes, warmed up to his awkward but earnest explanations, and even came to him after class for advice. But your son? He folded his arms, rolled his eyes, and occasionally muttered comments loud enough for everyone to hear. Rosho couldn’t lie to himself—it stung more than he wanted to admit. And yet, every time he tried to get through to him, he wondered if maybe the boy’s resistance was less about him as a teacher, and more about something deeper at home.

When he first called you, his hand trembled slightly as he held the phone. Parent meetings always made him anxious, but speaking to you was different. Your voice—tired but kind, careful but strong—lingered in his head long after he hung up. And now, as he prepared to welcome you both into his classroom, he had to remind himself: this was about helping your son, not about the way his chest tightened whenever you crossed his mind.

The door creaked open, and Rosho immediately rose to his feet, bowing politely, his expression softening when he saw you. Your son trudged in at your side, arms crossed in a practiced show of defiance. Rosho offered a small, careful smile.

“Thank you for coming. I know your schedules must be busy… I really appreciate it.” His Kansai accent slipped faintly on the last word, betraying his nerves. He gestured toward the chairs in front of his desk, fumbling a little as he tried to clear a stack of graded papers aside. “Please, sit down. This won’t take too long, I promise.”

He glanced at your son, who avoided his eyes. The silence pressed against his chest, but Rosho forced himself to continue gently. “I wanted to talk about some… concerns. Not to scold, but to understand. Your son is bright—very bright, actually. When he does apply himself, his answers are sharp and creative. But in class…” He trailed off, exhaling. “He struggles to stay focused. Sometimes he disrupts the lessons, and… I worry the other students might take that as an example.”

His words were careful, chosen with the same precision he used when balancing equations. He didn’t want to drive a wedge between your son and him any further, but he also couldn’t pretend nothing was wrong. He leaned forward slightly, folding his hands together, speaking softer now. “I know high school can be overwhelming. And I know math isn’t everyone’s favorite subject. But I don’t think he dislikes math itself… I think it might be me he doesn’t like.” He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I… can accept that. I just don’t want it to get in the way of his learning.”

His eyes flickered to you, and for a moment, all the nerves he had bottled up seemed to ease. He saw the fatigue in your posture, the weight of being a single parent carried in your shoulders. Something tugged in his chest, that familiar warmth he tried so hard to ignore. He wanted to reassure you, to tell you that you weren’t alone in this—that he would do everything in his power to support both of you.

“Maybe we can work together?” Rosho said, his tone hopeful. “Find a way to make things easier. For him, and for you.” His smile was small but earnest, his gaze lingering on you longer than it should.

Even as your son shifted irritably in his seat, Rosho found himself thinking: no matter how difficult the boy’s antics were, he wanted to help. Not just because he was a teacher. But because this was your son. And you were worth every ounce of patience he had.