My knees went weak. My father approached and took my hand.
“Emily has dyslexia,” he said. “I noticed it months ago. She was afraid to tell you because she heard you say several times that
she would read better if she only paid more attention.”
My throat tightened.
I really had said those words. I thought my daughter simply couldn’t concentrate. Whenever she received a poor grade, I
gave her more exercises, never understanding how difficult every word was for her.
“Why didn’t either of you tell me?” I whispered.
My father looked at Emily.
“She wanted to read an entire letter to you by herself for the first time. I promised I would help her.”
It turned out that my father had been working with her every night using special teaching methods. He had contacted one of his former colleagues, a learning specialist, studied materials about dyslexia, and even made colorful cards to help Emily distinguish the letters more easily.
