“Yes,” said Miles, calming the chatter that had bubbled up in the group. “But I mean what do you need to do those jobs?” The children were stumped. Miles looked to the back of the classroom, to Bo and me. “Maybe my chief of staff can answer my question. Daisy?”

The children, each one of them, along with Miss Brown, focused their attention on me. I tried not to fidget. Oh, this was the part of school I hated the most. The dreaded cold call. “Character?” I proposed.

“And education,” said Bo helpfully.

“Indeed,” said Miles, glad to finally hear the answer he was waiting for. “An education is important, not just because Miss Brown is teaching you all how to read and write well and do difficult math problems, but because an education teaches us how to be good people, strong people. Everyone, show me your muscles.” In a flash, the children flexed their tiny biceps. “Impressive.” He gave a few skinny arms around the circle a squeeze. “Now, strength is there, but it’s also here.” He pointed to his chest.

Fiona, who was fast becoming my favorite, raised her hand again. “Mama says if I want to be a doctor, I have to be smart in my brain and brave in my soul.”

“If you want to do any job well, Fiona, you have to be smart and brave.” Miss Brown tapped her knuckles on her desk, as though to say this is important.

“And nice, right, Miss Brown?” said a little boy with a gap in his front teeth. When she confirmed he was correct, the class erupted again, each volunteering the characteristics they believed important to success. Good painter was one. Funny was another.

“And telling the truth,” said Fiona, waving both hands in the air with an impish grin. “Can’t be a dirty liar!”

The children loved this one, falling over each other with giggles. Miles, charmed, chuckled too. But they all faded away to the background, and suddenly it was just me, alone, unable to join in. Because when Fiona had proclaimed that one should not be a dirty liar, the face that popped into my mind was not my father’s. It was my own.

“Language,” said Miss Brown, clapping her hands sharply. “Fiona, you try again.”

It took Fiona a few seconds, but she got there. “Honest,” she said. “A person has got to be honest.”

Miles set off for a short tour of the school’s library, and I, requiring space to think, wandered the building’s hallways. Memorial Day was a big thing to celebrate here, it seemed, as the main corridor was lined with stars and stripes, rendered in the familiar chunky, brutalist paint strokes of children. Several versions I actually liked, and made a mental note to inquire with the school if Miles could have one for his office. Maybe I would ask for one, as well, to remind myself what this was all for.