I didn't want to go to trade school. I wanted to be a preacher, like my dad. My eyes filled with tears, but I forced them back. A twelve-year-old was too big to cry.
Mom stood up, so I jumped to my feet, too.“Thank you, Doctor,”she said.“Come along, Peter.”
We drove home without saying much. I felt numb. Dyslexia?I'd never heard the word until last week. Sure, I was always the slowest kid in my class. During recess I had a special hiding place behind a shrub. There I would cry because I couldn't do my lessons no matter how hard I tried.