Thank you, he whispered. Now show me what you're working on, Diane said, settling beside him at the desk despite her obvious fatigue. Explain it like I'm five. Marcus smiled.
Their old game. He'd been explaining mathematics to his mother since he was seven. And she always listened with genuine interest, even when the concepts flew far above her head. This is a problem about graph theory.
He began sketching nodes and edges. Imagine you're trying to visit all the hospitals in the city, but you want to find the shortest route. As he explained, transforming abstract mathematics into stories his mother could follow. Diane watched her son with pride that bordered on pain.
She saw what others missed, the price of his brilliance. The hours spent alone while she worked. The childhood sacrificed on the altar of survival and excellence. "Marcus," she said suddenly, "are you happy?" He paused mid explanation.
What do you mean? This new school, the competition, all of it. Baby, I want to make sure you're doing this for you, not because you think you have to succeed for us. Marcus set down his pencil and really looked at his mother, 34 years old.
But the double shifts had aged her. Beautiful still, but tired in ways that went beyond physical exhaustion. She'd given up her own dreams of becoming a doctor to raise him alone after his father left before he was born. Mom, he said carefully.
When I solve a really hard problem, when the pattern suddenly makes sense and everything clicks into place, it's the best feeling in the world. Better than anything. It's like like music, but only I can hear it. Dianis, your father used to talk about music that way before he chose drugs over us.
They rarely discussed his father, a jazz musician whose genius had been consumed by addiction. Marcus knew he'd inherited his mathematical mind from somewhere just as he'd inherited his mother's determination. I'm not him, Marcus said firmly. Mathematics doesn't destroy people, it builds them.
You know, baby, I know. She squeezed his hand. Shum has a problem. They worked until nearly midnight.
Marcus explaining Diane asking questions that showed she understood more than she let on. when her eyes started drooping, Marcus insisted she go to bed. "Big day tomorrow," she murmured, kissing his forehead. "First day of Olympic Olympiad training." After she went to her room, Marcus returned to his desk.
The calculator sat beside his notebooks, a tangible reminder of sacrifices made for his dreams. He picked up his pencil and dove back into the problems, but now they carried extra weight. He wasn't just preparing for a competition. He was preparing to justify every extra shift his mother worked, every meal she skipped, every dream she deferred.
The scholarship to Peton had opened a door, but walking through it meant carrying the hopes of everyone who'd believed in him when the world saw just another poor black kid. At 2:00 a.m., he finally closed his notebooks. 6 hours until school, then training with Professor Whitmore. He should sleep, but his mind buzzed with theorems and possibilities.