What My Six-Year-Old Taught Us in a Room Full of Adults
“Do you think there’s a right answer, Mom?” Benjamin’s voice, small but fierce, echoed through the polished marble hallway, bouncing between the portraits of stern-faced alumni. I knelt to straighten his collar, hands trembling, more nervous than I’d felt before any interview of my own. Nathan tried to smile, but I could see the tension in his jaw.
We’d rehearsed for days. “Benjamin, what’s your favorite book?” “Why do you want to come here?” “What do you like to do after school?” All easy, safe answers. But now, as the heavy oak door creaked open and Mrs. Johnson beckoned us in, my heart hammered in my chest like a warning.
Inside, Mrs. Johnson sat at a vast desk, every paper perfectly aligned. Her smile was practiced, but her eyes were sharp. “Thank you for coming, Mr. and Mrs. Carter. And you must be Benjamin.”
Benjamin didn’t hide behind me. He strode forward, extending a hand. “Hi, Mrs. Johnson. Do you have any pets?”
She blinked, caught off guard. “Why, yes. A golden retriever named Max.”
Benjamin beamed. “Cool. My friend Michael’s allergic to dogs, but I’m not. I wish I could be a dog sometimes. You know, running in the park, no homework.”
Nathan coughed, trying to redirect. “Benjamin loves animals. He’s very curious.”
Mrs. Johnson smiled, but her lips twitched. “Curiosity is something we value here. Benjamin, what do you like most about school?”
He swung his legs under the chair, thinking. “Recess. Oh, and reading time. I like when Mrs. Patel reads us stories about kids who mess up but try again. I think it’s okay to mess up.”
I felt a flush creep over my cheeks. Was that too honest? Should he have said math or science? I remembered the stories of interviews gone wrong, of kids saying the wrong thing and blowing their chance at a future we’d worked so hard for.
Mrs. Johnson leaned in, intrigued. “Why do you think it’s okay to mess up?”
Benjamin shrugged. “Because if you never mess up, you never learn. Like, once I tried to make a sandwich and I put jelly on the outside by mistake. It was really sticky, but after that, I knew what not to do. I think adults forget that sometimes.”
Nathan shifted in his seat. He squeezed my hand under the table. Mrs. Johnson’s gaze flicked to us, a question behind her glasses. “That’s a very interesting answer, Benjamin. Tell me, why do you want to come to our school?”
Benjamin’s feet stilled. He looked at us, then at her. “My mom and dad said it’s a really good school. But I think all schools should be good. Are the kids here nice? Because if they’re not, I don’t want to come.”
A stunned silence filled the room. Mrs. Johnson glanced at us, almost apologetic, as if to say, ‘Are you hearing this?’ I sat up straighter, my nerves replaced with a strange, swelling pride.
She cleared her throat. “We work very hard to make sure our students are kind. Why is that important to you?”
Benjamin’s brow furrowed. “Well, last year, Sarah pushed me off the slide and said I couldn’t play because I’m not fast. It made my tummy hurt. I like learning, but I like friends more.”
Nathan jumped in, voice tight. “We want Benjamin to have the best opportunities. We’ve heard so much about your academic program.”
Mrs. Johnson nodded, but her focus stayed on Benjamin. “Benjamin, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
He grinned. “A magician. Or maybe a teacher. Or a dad like mine, but with more hair.”
I stifled a laugh. Nathan rolled his eyes, but he was smiling now, too. The tension in the room melted, replaced by something warmer, more genuine.
Mrs. Johnson leaned back. “That’s a wonderful list. Do you have any questions for me?”
Benjamin didn’t hesitate. “Why do grown-ups always want kids to be perfect? Do you think you’re perfect, Mrs. Johnson?”
She let out a surprised laugh. “No, Benjamin, I don’t. Not at all.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Good. No one is. I think it’s better to try than to be perfect.”
The rest of the meeting passed in a blur. I barely remembered what Nathan or I said. I only saw Benjamin, tiny but unafraid, speaking truths we’d tried to shield him from.
On the drive home, Nathan was quiet. I could see him replaying everything, the way parents do when they want desperately for things to go well. “Do you think he said the right things?” he asked finally.
I stared at Benjamin in the rearview mirror. He was humming, swinging his feet, free of worry. “I think he said the truest things,” I said. “Maybe that’s enough.”
A week later, the letter arrived. My hands shook as I opened it. Nathan hovered over my shoulder. Benjamin sat at the kitchen table, drawing a stick-figure magician with wild hair. I read the first line aloud: “We are delighted to welcome Benjamin Carter to our school.”
Tears pricked my eyes. Nathan hugged me. Benjamin looked up, grinning, as if he’d known all along.
That night, as I tucked him in, he asked, “Mom, do you think they liked my answers?”
I kissed his forehead. “I think they loved them.”
He smiled, drowsy. “Good. Because I don’t want to be someone I’m not, even for a school.”
As I watched him drift off, I wondered: When did we start believing that being honest was a risk, and being yourself was a gamble? What if, for once, we let our kids lead—and trusted they might just teach us something, too?