She walked to the table of leftover work and pulled off her shower cap, letting her short, black, shoulder-length hair fall loose. "I will not raise an unlettered child," she muttered to herself, her eyes never leaving her son. "You're learning the days of the week in English before you fly, and I will teach you now."
The little boy shuddered under her stern words, slowly sitting up on the bed, crossing his legs and clasping his fingers together. He watched as his mother picked up a tab from the desk and walked to the side of the bed, where she shuffled off her slippers and climbed in.
She scooted next to him, and their eyes met in a horizontal gaze—hers stern and disciplined, his sparkling with a hint of mischief as he tried to charm his way out of the situation. "Don't look at me, honey, look at the tab," she instructed, pointing at the holographic screen she held in her palm, presenting it before him.