The questions, and the quizzing, and the non-stop prep started when I was in Grade 3. The most intense sessions happened each August. My parents agreed that, in order for us to excel, we needed to get a head start on the school year and escape the summer brain fog. Friends coming to the door to play would be turned away. Bike rides past my crush’s house and neighbourhood games of manhunt would have to wait until I read for at least an hour. My mom became Mrs. Butcher and created a syllabus that included math, English, art, and electives. She once even had us write our own eulogies. She wasn’t trying to be morbid. She wanted us to think about who we were and who we wanted to be. But lessons weren’t taught solely in the “classroom.” If I was slouching at dinner, my mom would run her finger up my spine so I’d sit up straight. My dad would come up to me and pinch the bridge of my nose, without saying a word. It was a reminder that there was always time and opportunity to work on myself.