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The four-year-old class attendance book felt extra heavy when I picked it up this evening.
I opened the book to find my son’s name, then grimaced when I saw what was contained within: my son’s twice yearly report card.
I slipped the envelope into my purse and collected my son. I meant to hand the envelope unopened to my husband, because little that is important to me is ever expressed on these report cards.
My son began playing with a classmate. I watched for a moment before deciding, Why the heck not? If report cards aren’t important to me, why would I not at least glance at it as a curiosity?
I opened it and scanned quickly over its columns, noting agreement with some and wondering with amusement whose son some of the other marks were meant to reflect. When I was done, I tucked it back into my purse…
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