The teachers, tactful as a parole board, explained why my children of divorce needed additional support for success. So I learned to love Mickey Mouse dancing his hundredth hotdog dance on the TV, to please my son. She cannot spell Valentine's Day but remembers the capital letters. It's true, valentines are confusing. I'm there but I'm not. I don't see her errors until they stretch across the page. Five small, similar failures, the handwriting innocent and terrible. I don't yet understand this is a disability. I give basic, unclear directions: sound it out, keep trying. How can I make her learn? I am too full of rules. I'm so boring. Her eyes flit longingly to the screen. I need her to believe books might save her in ways I can't. Sometimes my yell is the pressing call to action, the ugly conclusion. Sometimes it escapes as suddenly as a dog's reflex to the unfamiliar. But I don't have it in me tonight. We are beautiful, tired and helpless in the pale lamplight. We continue, copying our mistakes, struggling to stop what is not yet habit.