Most people didn’t exactly jump for joy when math class rolled around back in school. Numbers, fractions, decimals, percentages — all those endless formulas written on chalkboards seemed to twist and turn in ways that gave students headaches instead of inspiration. For many, the sound of a teacher saying, “Take out your math books” felt like a warning rather than an invitation to learn.Little Johnny was no exception to this universal truth. He wasn’t bad at everything — he was curious, full of energy, and quick with a joke — but when it came to math, the poor kid just couldn’t seem to catch a break. Multiplication tables looked like secret codes, and word problems might as well have been written in another language. Still, Johnny tried his best, even if his “best” sometimes turned into trouble.

One afternoon, he came home looking defeated. His backpack was half-zipped, his hair was messy, and his face carried that all-too-familiar mix of guilt and frustration that only a rough school day could bring. He trudged into the kitchen, where his dad was reading the newspaper, and sighed heavily before blurting out, “Dad, I got an F in math today.”His dad looked up, concerned but calm. “Oh no, what happened this time, son?”Johnny plopped down in a chair and started explaining. “Well, the teacher asked me, ‘What’s three times two?’”His dad leaned forward. “And what did you say?”Johnny replied, “I said six.”His dad nodded approvingly. “Well, that’s correct! So why’d you get an F?”Johnny continued with a frown, “Then she asked, ‘What’s two times three?Now his dad’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Well… that’s still six. What’s the problem?”