Proud

By Laura Schiller

My father’s eyes slid over the report card, slow and deliberate like all his movements, as I stood in front of him and tried not to squirm. It was very quiet in that office of his, with the laptop humming on the desk and our breathing being the only sounds I could hear. He towered over me, frowning behind his square Armani glasses, and I had to remember not to hold my breath. Had he already seen my math and physics grades? I wanted to snatch the paper and run away, but held back instead. How ashamed he must be, I thought.

I couldn’t help remembering that one time he had shown me a stack of his own report cards, all emblazoned with the remark ‘very good’ and grades in the ninety-percent range (eighty if he was having a bad year). The teachers used to praise him for his remarkable memory and his store of general knowledge. Later on he climbed to the top of a successful shipping company, working late nights and leaving us for business trips for months at a time. His work ethic was incredible and neither my mother nor I had ever quite measured up to it.

Now here was I, his flighty, daydreaming daughter, bringing home an ugly splotch of a math grade: sixty-five percent. In physics, sixty-nine. I couldn’t stand it.

He handed it back to me without a word, wearing an expression I couldn’t read. He has an unnerving way of folding in on himself when he gets angry, holding every emotion in check so that only a hint of coldness shows through. Was he angry now? I couldn’t tell.

“So – so what do you think?” I asked, just to break the silence, my voice coming out too high and trembling.

“It’s okay,” he said automatically, nodded and turned away.

I ran down the hall, shut the door to my room and buried my head in a pillow. Oh no. I’ve disappointed him...I always knew I would. He’s probably thinking, What did I do to deserve such a stupid daughter...she’s good for nothing but writing corny poems. I hate math and physics...I’ve tried and tried but I just can’t get that stuff...sixty-five percent! Why can’t I be someone else?

I was crying – quietly, of course, since the office was right down the hall – so I had not noticed the sounds of a telephone being dialed and a conversation beginning. It was Father talking to his mother and if I paid attention, I could just hear the words.

“So how are you, Mom?...Good? Great...Oh, we’re doing fine. Laura’s summer vacation just started...six weeks. She just came home with her report card for the year, actually.”

My heart sank. This would be the point where he told Grandma all about my disastrous almost-failures. But what he said next was completely unexpected and I nearly gasped out loud.

“She got ninety-eight percent in English...” (A small chuckle) “I know she’s smart. She’s my daughter.”

And this time I did hear an emotion in his voice.

Pride.

She’s my daughter.

I wiped off my tears, tidied my hair in the mirror, and smiled.